


The Promise of a Lion

by casuallyhuman



Series: Of Wolves and Lions [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Season Eight, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Slow Burn, also lonely, because fuck season eight that's why, in this house we blatantly ignore season eight, in which both sansa and tyrion are oblivious, mostly rom tbh, sansa drinks now!, sansa is lonely, spoiler alert it's Bronn, that one sassy side character who knows what's up, there is little to no plot in this fic, there's a lot of hand-kissing, this is like a slightly chaotic rom-com, tyrion is horny, tyrion is trying to find a wife but he literally already has one, unrequited pining that's totally requited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 62,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18083213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casuallyhuman/pseuds/casuallyhuman
Summary: He hadn’t had a whore since before the war. He only had wine at meals and before bed and scaled that down enough to be presentable before his people. Tyrion was sober, and he was lonely. And he was tasked with the impossible.He needed a wife.He was perusing through a book on the lower houses of Westeros when Bronn had noisily sat himself on the other side of Tyrion’s desk, munching obnoxiously on an apple, and demanded to know what he was doing.Tyrion groaned, adding the book to the pile in front of him. “If you must know, I’m in need of a wife. I’m looking through these books to find one ugly enough to agree to marry me.”“Oh.” Bronn stopped chewing, brow furrowed. “Wait, aren’t you still married to that Stark girl?”The newly-made Lord Lannister looked to the sky and grimaced.“Fuck.”And so, Tyrion Lannister rode for Winterfell.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa Stark was done with the dramatic and intense life of ruling the North. Yes, she'd been good at it when she had to be. She knew her duty and could not refuse Jon's plea to take care of Winterfell while he and Daenerys went to the Wall, along with the largest army ever assembled on the continent. She couldn't fight, not like Arya, but she could take care of the people she'd been raised beside. 

So she'd ruled. She'd heard pleas from the villagers, she'd taken care of taxes, of food shortages, of all the scared women and children fighting for their lives in a harsh winter when all their husbands and fathers were off fighting a war no one thought could be won.

And she couldn't deny that she had enjoyed it, just a little. It wasn't effortless, but it gave her a satisfaction, knowing that she was needed and that she could help those left behind. She had a purpose, finally, and a place in a household she felt reasonably sure wouldn't betray her. 

 It was exhausting work, ruling. She often forgot to eat, working for hours without realizing that she'd missed several meals in a day. She fell into bed long after the rest of the castle had slipped into slumber and rose long before the sun's rays peeked over the horizon. 

Not only did she have to rule, she had to rule when much of the working population had gone to war. The women of the North were not weak, not by any means, but supporting a household by oneself could be impossible if there were children involved. And many of the provisions that had been saved for this winter had to be sent to those fighting, which left a hungry people with little energy. Her work was massive and often seemed impossible.

Still, she was glad to contribute  _something_  in this war. Jon had rallied the men, gathered the forces, and often had to lead them into a losing battle. At least she  _had_  a bed to sleep in at night.

Despite how quickly and well she took to ruling, the constant reminders of her dead family lingering in that castle haunted her. Yes, she got to sleep each night, but not without nightmares in which someone she loved inevitably died in front of her.

Many times, it was her father. She saw Joffrey's twisted smile, the delight in his eyes before she watched her father's head roll from his body. She screamed and fought, but could never make it to him in time. Could never quite wrap her outstretched hands around Joffrey's soft neck.

So, though she was good at ruling the North, she wasn't particularly inclined to continue doing so when the war ended.

The fight at the Wall had lasted two years. Two long, horrific years. Bran had been killed a year in, crushed under a mountain of White Walkers in battle after long months of relaying the White Walker army's location to that of the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime Lannister had also perished, trampled in a stampede of dead horses. Brienne of Tarth had died after charging into the middle of the army when she saw Jaime's mangled body, though not without taking down scores of the living dead. The Hound, Samwell Tarly, Tormund—the list of the dead was long and devastating. Jon had escaped with his life, though not with his right eye. Arya also managed to avoid Death, fighting with an efficiency that impressed even the most skeptical lords.

Daenerys, too, lived. Upon the victory at the wall, she marched to King's Landing, where she was met with minimal resistance. The city welcomed her when she came to dethrone Cersei, who had never quite discovered that a Lion could not ignore the opinions of sheep, especially when there were so many.

Though the Iron Throne was technically Jon's by right, he had no qualms about abdicating the crown to the fiery young woman. The two had fallen deeply in love during the war, and though they remained unmarried, there was clearly a shared devotion that Sansa had only witnessed between her mother and father.

Sansa wasn't quite sure how that relationship remained steady, particularly since the two clearly had separated to live two entirely different lives, but so far distance didn't seem to be an issue.

Once Jon had arrived back at Winterfell, she'd immediately given him back his position, citing the stress of ruling for her abdication. He'd given her plenty of power, nonetheless, and she was appointed as the mistress of the household.

Jon asked her about her plans for the future; now that the kingdom was safe, she was free to marry again. She could travel, could live in King's Landing, whatever she wished, he insisted. If he couldn't make it happen, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms certainly could. Sansa only had to name her desire.

She couldn't name one. Traveling was Arya's; she'd left Winterfell almost as soon as she'd returned. She would return, she'd promised Sansa. She just couldn't live in a castle filled with ghosts.

For that, Sansa couldn't blame her. But Arya knew how to travel anonymously, quietly. She could go where she wished without fear and would have no trouble creating a new life. Sansa, however, would need a destination. And there was nowhere to go.

So she couldn't give Jon anything. She'd told him that she just wanted to stay in Winterfell for now, if he'd allow it. She didn't want to remarry; she was sure she could never trust a man outside her family again. He'd assented, heartily, and since she'd spent her days reading and sewing the Stark family sigil onto everything she owned.

When the new Steward entered the library, she was reading one of Robb's old favorites. A book on the origins of various mythologies; the chapter on the White Walkers was both amusing and sobering.

"Lady Stark," Master Genrick said, "Lord Lannister has arrived from King's Landing. He'd like to speak with you."  

 

\---

 

After Jaime’s death and Cersei’s imprisonment, Casterly Rock was, without a doubt, Tyrion’s to take. And Daenerys was more than happy to give it.  

So after the war, Tyrion had returned the Hand’s pin to his Queen and returned to his childhood home. She’d, in turn, given it to Jon, who would eventually return to King’s Landing to fulfill his duty, though exactly when remained to be seen.

Though asserting his position as Lord of the Rock was by no means easy or seamless, he’d garnered respect in his fight at the Wall. Word had gotten around that he’d helped lead the charge in the last battle, and that sort of bravery in a man wasn’t something that was ignored, even if said man was a dwarf and despised by the previous Lord.

So, though there was plenty of dissent to go around, he had enough support in the castle to take his place in the Lord’s Hall. He’d then proven in the first months of ruling that he wasn’t the man he’d used to be, ceasing his whoring and even attempting to limit his drinking. His intelligence and quick wit helped to win over most of those who opposed him, and the rest were unceremoniously executed.

He was not cruel, but neither would he continue to bear ridicule.

Bronn had survived the war but had lost his left arm. “At least I’m still useful,” He’d joked. “If I’d lost my right one I think I’d’ve killed myself before anyone else even tried.”

So he at least had one friendly face around, even if Bronn was appalled by his decision to limit the wine and cut out the whores. “What’s the point in having a cock if you don’t use it?” He’d said when Tyrion refused to go out for a celebratory round at a local brothel.

Still, Tyrion was lonely. He had so much work to do after the war he sometimes thought he’d drown in the paperwork. While he’d been at the Wall, a young, distant Lannister had been unsuccessfully running Casterly Rock. That was part of the reason there wasn’t much resistance to Tyrion’s new status—most reasoned that nothing could be worse than a 16 year old boy who gluttoned while his people starved and refused to take any advice.

Unfortunately, he’d left the mess for Tyrion to clean up. Ever since Tyrion returned to the Rock, he’d been working from dawn to dusk, with no help save for his steward. He sometimes missed the company of young, beautiful women, but had neither the time nor the will to visit a whorehouse. Besides, he clearly had to prove that he was truly serious about his loyalty to his house, and that meant becoming someone a man could respect. Someone honorable.

He hadn’t had a whore since before the war. He only had wine at meals and before bed and scaled that down enough to be presentable before his people. Tyrion was sober, and he was lonely. And he was tasked with the impossible.

He couldn’t do it alone.

He needed a wife.

So he began searching.

He needed someone intelligent enough to help him, charming enough to be respected as Lady Lannister. He needed someone of childbearing age—now, he actually did have to have heirs, if he didn’t want the entirety of his house going to that twat whose mess he was _still_ cleaning. But, most importantly, he needed someone who would agree to marry him. He imagined that list of women in Westeros wasn’t very long.

He was perusing through a book on the lower houses of Westeros when Bronn had noisily sat himself on the other side of Tyrion’s desk, munching obnoxiously on an apple, and demanded to know what he was doing.

Tyrion groaned, adding the book to the pile in front of him. “If you must know, I’m in need of a wife. I’m looking through these books to find one ugly enough to agree to marry me.”

“Oh.” Bronn stopped chewing, brow furrowed. “Wait, aren’t you still married to that Stark girl?”

The newly-made Lord Lannister looked to the sky and grimaced.

 “Fuck.”

And so, Tyrion Lannister rode for Winterfell.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion was shown to a set of guest rooms befitting a Lannister Lord, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he’d been to Winterfell when a Stark ruled. He’d initially been turned away, sent to stay in an inn in the village. It seemed the reception improved once you actually ruled one of the Seven Kingdoms.
> 
> It took over an hour, but finally Sansa Stark entered his solar.
> 
> She stopped when she saw him. Her piercing eyes roved his form, and he couldn’t help but notice that her back was a little straighter, countenance a little harsher than he remembered.
> 
> It seemed his young wife had grown.
> 
> “Hello, Sansa.”

Tyrion’s arrival at Winterfell was awkward.

Though he and Jon Snow—Stark, he corrected himself, Jon Stark—were well acquainted, perhaps even verging on friends after their shared time in the war, Tyrion’s unannounced arrival wasn’t completely welcomed, as it turned out to be completely unexpected.

He explained that he had, in fact, sent a raven, though it hadn’t arrived, and was sorry that he had not waited for a reply, but that this business was urgent and he’d _really_ like to see Lady Stark, just for a moment. After a moment to consider his words, Jon replied that he could stay, and that he’d see if Lady Stark would receive him.

Tyrion was shown to a set of guest rooms befitting a Lannister Lord, and he couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he’d been to Winterfell when a Stark ruled. He’d initially been turned away, sent to stay in an inn in the village. It seemed the reception improved once you actually ruled one of the Seven Kingdoms.

It took over an hour, but finally Sansa Stark entered his solar.

She stopped when she saw him. Her piercing eyes roved his form, and he couldn’t help but notice that her back was a little straighter, countenance a little harsher than he remembered.

It seemed his young wife had grown.

“Hello, Sansa.”

“Tyrion,” She acknowledged with a nod of her head, sweeping past him to seat herself at a small table. As he slipped into the chair across from her, she poured herself some wine. “What brings you?”

He let the beginnings of a smile curve the edges of his lips as he watched her sip from her goblet. Her eyes flashed at that, deadly, and she cocked her head to the side.

Yes, Sansa was a girl no more.

He sighed deeply and relented, reaching to take the decanter himself to pour a glass. “I’m sure you know this, but I’ve been appointed Lord of Casterly Rock. It’s been quite an ordeal.”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. You have my congratulations.”

Tyrion rolled his neck to the side, feeling a pop. He sighed aloud. “You remember we were married in King’s Landing, of course.”

“Difficult to forget, my lord.”

He couldn’t keep in his dry chuckle. “I suppose it would be,” He sipped his wine, keeping his eyes on her. “I’m sure you also know that, as we never approached the High Septon, according to the law, we are technically still man and wife.”

She paused suddenly, then found his gaze with her steely blue eyes. “Yes, I suppose we are.”

He sighed, placing his goblet down on the table and leaning in towards her. “Sansa, I have great responsibility now at Casterly Rock. I work alone, constantly, without a companion and without reprieve. I’ve come to annul our marriage so that, if the gods are good, I can convince some poor girl from a lower house to marry me and bear heirs for my house. I assume you are amiable?”

Sansa nodded, nearly imperceptibly. “I am.” She paused. “However, I wonder that you wish to marry a girl from a lower house. I know you think little of yourself, Tyrion, but you must admit that you could secure nearly any highborn lady in the Kingdoms. You are, after all, a Lannister.”

Tyrion scoffed. “Sansa, you’re forgetting that they’ll actually have to get into a bed with me.  The majority of the Seven Kingdoms thinks I can’t produce heirs; even with my name, I can’t convince a father to give his daughter’s hand to a dwarf if he believes she won’t even be the mother of the Lord of a great house.” He sighed, downing the rest of the wine in his cup. “No, it’s alright. I’ll find some ugly third sister who has absolutely no other marriage prospects. I just have to find one smart enough to spell my last name.”

Sansa observed him silently from her perch on the opposite side of the table, trying to discern the difference in the Tyrion she’d once known and the one sitting before her today.

He was tired, she realized. His eyes had a weariness in them she often saw in her own reflection, and his face was no longer as smooth as it once was, the beginnings of wrinkles beginning to show on his forehead and around his eyes. She knew that he had been taking his new position as Lord of Casterly Rock seriously; she had developed a habit of keeping up with important figures in Westeros. Still, she didn’t think Tyrion would give up his lifestyle for something like duty. Duty to his house, anyway. It had never been on his list of priorities before, and she hadn’t imagined it ever would be.

But here he was, sitting before her and requesting to annul their marriage so he could fulfill that duty, despite how much she suspected he didn’t want to.

She nodded her assent. “What do you need me to do?”

They make no immediate plans to depart for King’s Landing, as Tyrion pointedly insists that he’d like to give the raven time to carry the message of their travel to the Queen and her reply back.

Sansa doesn’t particularly mind. She enjoys the company. Tyrion’s a happy respite from her monotonous weeks of reading and sewing, and she finds that his wit has not dulled since they’d last spoken. If anything, it’s sharper, and she finds herself happy to engage in long conversations about the War, about the Queen, about the Faceless men. They even once breach the subject of love, but both agree that neither have the experience nor knowledge to bother discussing it further.

On the third day, when Jon is occupied elsewhere, Sansa invites Tyrion to dine in her rooms.

He makes himself comfortable in what he’s begun to think of as his chair as a servant pours wine.

He doesn’t speak, and neither does Sansa. They quietly observe each other until they’re both finished.

 “We’ve come quite a long way from a demon monkey and a traitor’s daughter.” She remarks quietly.

He shrugs. “Strangely, once the rest of my family died, the world really didn’t care about us anymore.”

“I don’t think I mind it.”

“Nor do I,” he says, sipping his wine. He watches her trace a ring around the rim of her cup, pondering at her tenacity.

“Sansa, tell me,” he begins abruptly, and she meets his eyes. “are you happy?”

She looks out the window, pausing to think. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “I’m not worried about being beaten, or betrayed, or raped—” at this, Tyrion winces, “—so I don’t suppose I could be unhappy, knowing that kind of life. But I must admit, I can’t help but feel…” She lingers, searching for a word.

“Bored?” He supplies.

“Perhaps. And that’s the last thing I should feel, because I don’t miss the intrigue of my old life. I don’t want to rule the North, but I don’t want to sit quietly behind Jon, either. I often feel I don’t have a place.” She admits, and for the first time since he’s arrived, he sees a flash of feeling in her eyes.

He’s curious. “You don’t want to rule?” He knows he sounds incredulous, and he can see she’s confused by his reaction. “I mean,” he hurries, “it’s just that I know that Jon will soon join Daenerys at King’s Landing. And I had heard that you had done such a fine job during the war, I had assumed…”

“That I’d sit in the Lord’s chair again?” She asks, looking at her hands, then back at him. “I know I could. I just find I have no desire to sit where my father once did. While I may still be a Stark, and I am still his daughter, I am not the same girl who left this castle all those years ago. I know I could belong here, I’m just not sure I want to.”

“You’re more capable than any woman I’ve ever met, Lady Stark. I have no doubt you’ll find your place and exceed every expectation.”

A smile quirks at the edges of those pretty lips. “Of course. As you know, I happen to be in the business of exceeding expectations.”

“Oh, I’m quite aware.”

She leans back in her seat, studying him for a moment. “What of you, Tyrion? I know you’re busy, and lonely, but do you enjoy ruling? Have you found happiness?”

He has to consider her question. He was incredibly tired, overworked, and completely alone, save for the occasional evening with Bronn. But he couldn’t say he disliked his position. It may be nearly as taxing as war, but he has to admit that he’s quite good at it. He has a purpose, is well-respected, and has a new type of power that he can’t bring himself to _dislike_.

Tyrion folds his hands together on the table. “I don’t know that I’ve found happiness quite yet, but I believe I may have found the path that leads me there.”

 “I’m pleased to hear it.” She says, smiling softly. “Perhaps we were not always on the same side, Tyrion, but I do consider you a friend. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He twists the ring on his finger, thinking of all the duties he’s left behind to begin the search for a desirable marriage.

“As do I, Sansa."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've blown away by the reception for this story! To be completely honest, I thought it was trash before I posted it, but I did anyway because I was bored. Thanks so much to everyone for commenting! I'm glad you're enjoying it- I'll try to post updates once a week. And please, please keep reviewing! It keeps me going, and I love constructive criticism.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the fourth day, Sansa takes Tyrion through the family crypts.
> 
> He’s not entirely sure why; one moment they’re walking, speaking on his sister’s fate, and the next he’s staring into the eyes of a direwolf.
> 
> It’s a statue, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from jumping.
> 
> At his fearful exclamation, Sansa appears to be holding in her laugh. “To think, this one is only stone. I wonder at what would happen if you met Ghost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like this was going to be a bit of a filler chapter when I started writing it, but idk, I feel like it helped our story out. These two need to get to know each other before there's any smooching in the firelight, right? I know you're probably thinking no, dear god, stop pretending to know how to develop a plot line and get to the smut, but cut me some slack. This angsty fluff is fun to write.

On the fourth day, Sansa takes Tyrion through the family crypts.

He’s not entirely sure why; one moment they’re walking, speaking on his sister’s fate, and the next he’s staring into the eyes of a direwolf.

It’s a statue, of course, but it doesn’t stop him from jumping.

At his fearful exclamation, Sansa appears to be holding in her laugh. “To think, this one is only stone. I wonder at what would happen if you met Ghost.”

Tyrion takes a moment to collect himself, playfully glaring at the Stark woman. “You do know I’ve met direwolves before? I’m sure my reaction would be much better were I prepared.”

“I know you’ve met a young direwolf. But Ghost is the size of a large horse now—sometimes even I fear him, and I have wolf blood running in my veins.”

He looks at her meaningfully. “I suppose if Sansa Stark fears something, you’d be an idiot to not do the same.”

She doesn’t respond, only stares into the tunnel the pair of snarling wolves guard. She’s very hard to read, Sansa, and he finds himself wishing he could guard his own countenance half as well as she guards her own. Though, he doesn’t suppose he’d like to embark on the process that forced her to learn that particular skill.

He peers into the darkness as well. He’s no idiot; he knows this is the Stark crypt. Her entire family is buried in there, save for Bran, who couldn’t be found after the great battle beyond the Wall. She’s lost far too much, he thinks, for someone so young. He often forgets, but Sansa is barely past twenty. The burdens she carries make her eyes seem far older, more experienced. Sadder.

“I haven’t been in here since Arya returned,” Sansa finally said, breaking the silence. “I should probably pray for them again.”

Tyrion glanced at the wolves again. “I used to pray for my mother. But I think you and I learned long ago that the dead can’t hear our prayers, my lady.”

She clears her throat, folding her hands in front of her. “Would you like to go with me?”

He doesn’t know if it’s the greatest idea, a Lannister in a Stark crypt, but her voice is so gentle you would almost think it was pleading (though not pleading anymore, never that from Sansa), and he can’t deny he has an itch of curiosity making itself known. He’s never seen a crypt honoring the Old Gods before, and he highly doubts he’ll ever be invited into this crypt in particular ever again.

So, onward they go.

They walk silently; he imagines she’s lost in thoughts of her dead family. The further they travel down the dark passageways, the more familiar the names under the statues become, until finally they stop before Eddard Stark.

The sculptor who created the remembrance did well, Tyrion thinks. He’d only met the man a few times, but the shape of the brow, the pride in the shoulders—he remembers this. The sculptor has somehow rendered Stark ferocity with Lord Stark’s honor and patience in the statue’s stance. He wonders what Sansa’s statue will look like.

“My father may have been the greatest man I ever knew, but he wasn’t smart enough for King’s Landing.” Sansa says, breaking the silence.

Tyrion glances up at her, then back to the great stone greatsword in front of him. “I don’t know that it was a lack of intelligence so much as unfamiliarity. Your lord father didn’t understand how ruthless and disgusting people could be, and that was his downfall. Ignorance of the despicable.”

“I only wish Robb had learned that lesson.” She looks at the next statue, that of her older brother. “He was a good man, too. Trying his best to uphold the family honor. But he paid with his life. His wife and child’s. Our mother’s.”

He sees her clench her jaw, tighten the hold she has on the skirts of her dress, close her eyes briefly. After a moment, when she opens them, her composure has returned and the cold exterior Sansa carefully created years ago comes back into place.

“And yours,” He realizes, “If he had crossed at the Twins, you wouldn’t have left, would you? Wouldn’t have gone with Littlefinger?”

She won’t meet his eyes, looking down at her hands. The silence cloys the air, though, until it’s so uncomfortable she finally responds. “No,” She says quietly. “I was going to stay until he reached King’s Landing. You were protecting me, and if Robb was alive—” she hesitates. “Even if he had won more battles, and Joffrey desired to punish me, you wouldn’t have allowed it. Your father wouldn’t have allowed it. I could have been carrying his heir.” She pauses again, looks at him. “But Robb died, my mother died. I didn’t have anyone to wait on. I thought, because I was foolish and young, that leaving with even just a friend of my family’s would be better than staying in a den of lions. Clearly, I was wrong.”

He hadn’t known for sure, but he’d heard the rumors about Sansa Stark. She’d been sold off to Ramsay Bolton, the bastard-cum-lord whose violent proclivities were known even before he’d attached himself to a Stark. According to some whispers Varys had gathered, she’d been raped and beaten by the bastard until the day that Winterfell was no longer his. Then, he’d heard, Ramsay Bolton was fed to his own hounds by the woman standing before him. Tyrion had felt no sympathy, and nor had the Dragon Queen. It was this, in fact, that had prompted Daenerys to decide that she’d like to meet Sansa Stark.  

He meets her eyes, fights the urge to take her hand.

He knows they were never truly man and wife, that she never loved him and the relationship between the two could be characterized as slight fondness at best. Still, he wants to go back in time and kill Littlefinger himself. Strangle the worm until the light died in his eyes. For her, he wants to cut Ramsay Bolton into pieces. He’d do anything in this moment, _anything_ , to go back in time and stop her from getting on that ship.

They’re staring at each other, he knows, and it should have gotten strange several minutes ago, and somehow it hasn’t. Somehow, he knows they’re both thinking of how different their lives would be if she hadn’t left that night.

He finally gives into his urges and takes her hand in his. “My lady,” he begins quietly, “You’ve been told this before, but the horrors that befell you were not of your own doing. You were too young to even make such decisions, and yet the gods forced your hand. You could not know what Lord Baelish was playing at.” He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of how he could possibly express the feelings racing in his mind. “Some men are fools, and monsters, and I’m sorry you had to meet such men. I pray to every god that has ever been worshipped that you never go through anything like that again. But you must know, if you ever need somewhere to go, no matter what the reason, you will forever be welcome at Casterly Rock.”

Sansa’s lashes flutter, she squeezes his hand, and he knows from the look in her eyes that she understands the gesture he’s trying to make. “Thank you, my lord. That-“ She clears her throat. He sees her fight to keep a straight face, and she gently lets her hand drop to her side, “I appreciate your offer very much.”

He nods sharply, and she leads them back out the maze of graves into the brightness of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was short, but it was also early. And I may post another this week? I was going to convince myself to pretend to be busy, but honestly? If I didn't study calculus the first and the 600th time I said I would in my free time, it probably won't happen the next. Drop a review, por favor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys had agreed to house them in the palace, of course, and would be more than willing to send men to Winterfell to escort them, should they express the desire. She was pleased that she’d see them both and urged Sansa to tell Jon she missed him.
> 
> “Would you like to wait for her men?” He asked his young wife, though he believed he already knew her response.
> 
> “No, that’s all right. If we wanted to travel with men, we have plenty here who would be willing. Besides, I’d thought it’d be easier to travel in a smaller group. The journey would be faster and we’d be harder to recognize.”
> 
> “With your hair and my shortcomings?” Tyrion joked, passing the letter back.
> 
> “You’re very funny.” She says, unlaughing, but as she turns he can tell she’s suppressing a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one isn't as long as I'd like either, but I'll get better once the actual plot(?) comes in. Anyway, enjoy!

The next two days are wonderful.

Well, that’s Tyrion’s opinion, anyway. Though he has been working tirelessly without break for several months running the West, so this feels more like a vacation than anything else. Bronn had travelled with him to Winterfell but has spent most of his time in the village. Whoring, if Tyrion had to guess.

One night, Sansa slides a book of figures across the table after they’ve finished dining in her quarters. “Would you look over these for me?”

Upon closer examination, he realizes the figures represent the size of Winterfell’s coffers. They’re far larger than he expects; while not close to matching his own house’s wealth, they’re close to rivalling that of the Reach, if he had to guess.  

Jon was able to take on many of the duties of Lord when he came home but relies on Sansa for help with the North’s finances, she explains. She’s trying to decide how many builders to bring in to help finish the restoration of the castle but doesn’t know how much the men would cost.

He looks at her curiously. “Why do you ask for my help?”

“I know you oversaw the restoration of several castles in the Westerlands. I thought you could advise me on how to best plan a course of action.”

He did, but he didn’t know she had kept such a close eye on him. He’d undertaken many projects since becoming Lord of his house, and the rebuilding of the castles was only one of many. She hadn’t just kept tabs on him; she’d been watching him.

His chest warms at the thought, and as he’s grown used to doing as of late, he ignores the feeling.

Sansa helps Jon often, as Winterfell is still transitioning to the change in leadership, but she no longer runs the castle, so the two spend an obnoxious amount of time together in the library. They recommend books to each other and spend hours quietly reading side by side.

He knew, of course, that Sansa has a sharp wit and mind, but he had never thought her particularly interested in reading.

“There was hardly time for novels when I was busy plotting how to stay alive,” She answers wryly when he asks why they hadn’t done this in King’s Landing.

To his delight, the two have a lot of favorites in common, and when they aren’t in the library, they’re often arguing over some of the finer points. He’s refreshed by their time together; she knows how to debate, how to think ahead and—this may be his favorite thing about the new Sansa—how to drink. She’s no drunkard, but he’s still impressed that she can enjoy as much wine as he (the _new_ he, mind you, not even the largest knight could keep up with his old habits) without appearing worse for wear. She relaxes after two cups, lets those pretty smiles grace her lips more often. Even giggles a couple of times, which startles him so much the first time it happens he stares for a few seconds more than strictly necessary.

“What is it?” She demands.

He shakes his head. “Nothing, my lady.” He sips his cup. “I just don’t believe I’ve heard you laugh until just now.”

She’s warmed to him wonderfully after that day in the crypts. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t ask questions, opting instead to enjoy the surprising change of behavior.

Her humor is dry, and while she doesn’t say anything that could be classified as crude, she certainly knows how to imply whatever she likes without making direct, incriminating statements. This is slightly infuriating, but also so entertaining he doesn’t complain.

Sometime after she fled King’s Landing, Sansa became a skilled horsewoman. It’s an unexpected revelation that comes right after she leaves him in the dust after challenging him to a race while riding; she grins at him from her perch on her lithe little mare.

It turns out, when not fighting to keep herself and everyone else alive, Sansa Stark is a delight.

She almost makes him wish Daenerys would take her time replying; they may not truly be man and wife, but _gods_ , do those half-smiles that touch her lips make him wish he could keep pretending otherwise.

But Lady Stark is not his. The fire sparkling behind those icy blue eyes belongs to no one but herself, and he doubts she’ll ever again trust a man enough to share it.

So when the raven from King’s Landing does arrive on the seventh day, he’s resigned to the prospect of having to find a new stranger for his bed.

Sansa brings him the letter; as she’d written the first, she’s already read the response.

Daenerys had agreed to house them in the palace, of course, and would be more than willing to send men to Winterfell to escort them, should they express the desire. She was pleased that she’d see them both and urged Sansa to tell Jon she missed him.

“Would you like to wait for her men?” He asked his young wife, though he believed he already knew her response.

“No, that’s all right. If we wanted to travel with men, we have plenty here who would be willing. Besides, I’d thought it’d be easier to travel in a smaller group. The journey would be faster and we’d be harder to recognize.”

 “With your hair and my shortcomings?” Tyrion joked, passing the letter back.

“You’re very funny.” She says, unlaughing, but as she turns he can tell she’s suppressing a smile.

“Yes, I always thought so.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, what do you think? We could leave tomorrow if we only took half a dozen men.”

“Half a dozen?” He eyes her incredulously. “Are you sure that’s the wisest course?”

She sighs, sits down at his table. “I suppose you have a very convincing argument to say otherwise.”

Tyrion’s brow crinkles. “My lady, the Kingsroad is a dangerous place, especially now that winter has passed. I don’t think six of your men could stop a determined group of robbers; we were attacked twice on the way here, and I’m sure you’ll recall I brought two dozen in company.”

“You also carried Lannister banners and were outfitted in red and gold,” She argues, “Any half-wit robber would know that you were worth attacking. We won’t carry banners, and we’ll both wear cloaks.”

“What-“ He stops, staring at her, “You don’t mean to take a wheelhouse?”

Sansa scoffs. “A wheelhouse takes twice as long to travel in, as I’m sure you know. You didn’t take a wheel house here.”

“No, but-“

“But what?” She demands, eyes steely. “I assure you, I can manage myself on horseback, Lord Tyrion.”

“Yes, but-“ He pauses. He’s angered her, though unintentionally. He doesn’t want to misstep now, not with the look she’s giving him. “I just meant that usually, in my experience, robbers tend to be more likely to attack a company if there’s a beautiful woman among them.” Her eyes widen as she understands his meeting. He swallows nervously. “It’s not that I think you couldn’t. A wheelhouse could keep you from sight.”

She looks less likely to murder him now, which he supposes is better.

“You’re right,” Sansa says. “But a wheelhouse also implies wealth. Have you ever heard of anyone but a Lord owning one?”

He supposes not, and tells her so, but he still doesn’t like it. “I still don’t think it’s wise to travel with so few men. Anything could happen.”

She huffs at him. “Winterfell is still in the process of rebuilding, in case you haven’t noticed. We’ve done a lot during the winter, but not enough. We can’t spare the men. And I have no desire to ask the Queen to send men she needs to keep stability in King’s Landing. We’ll be unmarked and we’ll move fast. We’ll be fine.”

He regrets now sending most of his own men back to Casterly Rock. He’d known they’d be making this trip south once she’d agreed but hadn’t anticipated that she’d be willing to travel without a suitable company.

“I could send for my men to return.” He says, though he can tell this is a losing battle.

“You’d send someone to catch them after they’ve been travelling for a week, tell them to turn around for another week, and then send them on a journey lasting three?” She asks, lips set.

“No,” He concedes. “I’m just worried.”

“I know,” She responds softly. “But my father told me himself he made this journey often when he was just a boy, with fewer men. We will be fine.”

 And so, on the ninth day, they depart for King’s Landing.

Tyrion’s still skeptical about the whole idea, but even he has to admit that the Northern men know how to blend in well. Even Sansa, with her plain brown cloak, could be mistaken for a slight man if one wasn’t looking too closely. They don’t look like they have money, and the men accompanying them are well-armed enough that they’ll likely deter anyone considering an attack.

Bronn is coming with them, which does Tyrion some comfort.

He’d mentioned his lady wife’s intentions to get herself killed to Bronn, frustrated, the day before leaving. The other man had just laughed.

“Sounds as if she’s got a tongue sharper than yours,” He’d commented, smirking down at Tyrion.

“Yes, well,” He’d huffed, “that tongue may be all well and good in an argument, but it will likely be useless if someone recognizes us.”

 “Aye.” Bronn had eyed him. “You’d like a taste of that tongue, wouldn’t you?”

“Bronn!” Tyrion had rebuked, glaring. “We’re getting an annulment.”

“Yes, yes, the annulment. I know. You’ve said.”

“You realize that’s the entire point of this trip to King’s Landing?” Tyrion protested his friend’s knowing look.

“I do. But there’s a lot of time between now and us reaching King’s Landing.”

Tyrion had only rolled his eyes and left his friend to continue packing for the journey. He may be a half-man, but his mind is functional. Sansa would want to wed a proper man at some point, and she couldn’t do that without this annulment. He couldn’t have an heir without this annulment. It was necessary.

Before they leave Winterfell, Jon comes out to show them off. Tyrion watches as Sansa gives her brother (cousin, whatever—he can’t keep track anymore) a hug. He kisses her cheek and smiles at her, nodding as she climbs onto her horse.

Tyrion approaches then and shakes the man’s hand. “She’ll be back soon,” He promises Jon.

The other man smiles. “I’ll miss her, but I’m sure she’ll like getting away for a while.” He opens his mouth, but then closes it again, hesitating. “Take care of her for me?”

Tyrion nods. “Of course.”

Jon glances at Sansa, who’s going through her saddlebags. “She looks so sad, sometimes, when she doesn’t know I’m there. But you-“ He pauses, looking at the smaller man. “I think having you around has been good for her.”

Jon doesn’t give him time to inquire further, turning to speak to the man leading the company, Ser Talton.

Tyrion dismisses the notion that Jon’s words imply anything but the innocence with which they’d been said and goes to mount his horse. Soon Talton is on his own steed, and the journey to King’s Landing begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Also, I'm thinking of changing the title, but I haven't thought of a good one. I already changed it once, since there was actually another Sanrion work with a similar name. I'm open to suggestions, so please feel free to comment any!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking about this story, and I was like bro, this is getting boring. You gotta throw some spice in there. It was this or the only-one-bed trope. That's a damn fine trope (shoutout to whoever requested it... maybe that can happen later?), but this is even spicier. Can't have flavorless fic, amiright? 
> 
> I'd also like to apologize for my excessive use of commas, which tend to be grammatically incorrect. I can't help it. Commas are lit as hell and I love them.

They make good progress the first day. Sansa is true to her word: she does quite well on a horse. When they stop to make camp that night, she only hears the men complain of aching legs and sore arses.

She eats with Tyrion that night; it’s become something of a habit since he came to Winterfell. If nothing else, the man provides entertaining enough company. She loves her brother and sister, but they aren’t particularly known for their humor and wit.

There’s been too much suffering, too much sadness in the War; now that they’ve won, Sansa can’t help but think the constant sobriety surrounding Winterfell is growing tiresome.

Her husband rarely holds a conversation without adding dry satire. It annoyed her as a girl in King’s Landing, she remembers; she always felt she only understood half of what he said. She was, of course, right, but now that she actually catches the subtle slights and jokes, she can’t help but find his presence refreshing.

Sansa isn’t sure which of the men cooked, but the sludge slopped into her bowl is repellant. Tyrion clearly thinks the same, pouring his into the grass and pulling some dried venison from his saddlebag.

She tries to eat the soup, really does, because she _is_ hungry, and unlike Tyrion, she hadn’t thought to bring along any spare food. But after a few bites, she follows his example and throws her bowl to the side. Better to be a little hungry until they get to the next inn than to throw up everything she’d eaten that morning.

They talk late into the night. They mostly discuss Daenerys and Jon’s relationship; neither is certain the outcome will be the best for the realm, but they can agree that there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. They’re perfect complements of each other. And Jon could ride Rhaegal—something Tyrion mentions spoke volume to his character, at least to Daenerys. No, whatever strange relationship the two had developed was here to stay. Its implications would have to be dealt with as they came.

At last, when the fire is smoldering and the rest of their small camp has grown quiet, Sansa stands. “I believe it’s time for me to retire, my lord. We have another long day tomorrow.”

Tyrion nods. “Of course.”

As she turns to her tent, he calls her name.

“Yes?”

“Forgive me, it’s just-“ He hesitates. “Did you eat?”

“I- no, I didn’t,” She admits, “but I’ll be alright until we reach the next town. Ser Talton said we’d be there by midday.”

He shakes his head and reaches into his bag, pulling out some wrapped venison. “Please, you have to eat something.”

She shakes her head. “I’m alright, I couldn’t-“

“Sansa,” He says, arm still outstretched. “Just take it.”

He’s looking at her so intently she feels she shouldn’t refuse him again. And she really _is_ hungry.

So she accepts it, fingers brushing his. “Thank you.” She murmurs.

He nods. “Goodnight, my lady.”  

\---

The men grow antsy the next day. Talton had said there was an inn in the next village, but it had been closed during the War. They were getting hungry, restless, and their conversations grew more obnoxious and loud by the hour.

The Northern men are usually cognizant of what they say, especially around their lady. But there are a couple members of the party that are young, rowdy. Bronn likes to tease them, just to see the look on their faces when they’re riled up. Sansa knows he’s just bored, and always finds herself glancing at Tyrion when she hears a clamor, for some reason, knowing he’s likely thinking the same as she. He always seems to be looking at her, too, as if he’d also thought to share the moment with her.

The rapport she’s grown with Tyrion is… different. He’s not like any other man she’s ever known. He’s not like her brothers, who were always forthcoming with their emotions and thoughts. They weren’t really simple people, she knows, but their characters weren’t particularly complex, either.

He’s not like any of the schemers she’s known, either. He certainly isn’t like Littlefinger, who always had several levels of clouded reasoning behind every action. He’s not like Cersei, who seemed to have some perverse twist behind every ambition, every word.

But that’s not who Tyrion is. Yes, he schemes and plans, but he doesn’t do it for himself, not really. He doesn’t look for advancement. She knows he used to- that years ago, in King’s Landing, he wanted power, wanted to rule. But that’s not who he is, not now.

She doesn’t know who he is now. He hides behind his wit, his jokes. But he isn’t a drunken little dwarf anymore, no matter what he tries to make everyone think. He cares about duty. He’s loyal to those who are kind. He wants the best for the realm, for his people.

She’s come to enjoy his presence. Lately, she’s felt there’s no one who really understands her. Jon and Arya love her, she knows, but Jon doesn’t understand the way she thinks and plans. He’s honorable to a fault and finds it difficult when she explains her complicated ideas to regain bannermen, to gain favor with the Reach in for food supplies. He doesn’t really get this new woman she’s become. Arya gets it, at least, had to change just as much as she did to survive, although in a different way. But Arya isn’t like Sansa. Arya is smart, it’s true, but she’s also brazen, bold, impulsive. The two get along well enough, but they’re so different sometimes it’s difficult to hold long conversations.

Everyone else in the castle barely speak to her. She knows it’s not a slight. They think she’s fragile, breakable because of what she went through with Ramsay, which has become common knowledge. They think she’s a little mad, too, because of what she did _to_ Ramsay. But still, she’s their lady, and they’re smart enough to recognize that she’s good at that.

Speaking with Tyrion, though, is something entirely different. He doesn’t pity her. He’s not scared of her. Their minds are similar—she often doesn’t even have to explain the rationale behind her thoughts, he just _knows_. Unlike Arya, he’s easy to converse with. They talk for hours, sometimes, not even noticing the time passing.

He’s something like a kindred spirit, she supposes. She’s liked having him around, she’s willing to admit to herself. She’s been so lonely at Winterfell, but she hasn’t even noticed until now, when there’s someone she actually _wants_ to talk to.

And that’s… nice. Everyone makes jokes about him, calls him wicked, misshapen, perverted, drunken. But he’s not any of those things, not really. It’s true, some of his jests are sharpened to extract a certain reaction, to shock, but even those aren’t all that vile. Sometimes his eyes twinkle and she knows without a doubt his next words will be sexual, even if it’s subtle. But he doesn’t say anything about _her_ , or even really anything about any one woman. There’s nothing aimed at anyone, so she doesn’t think he’s perverted. And even when they were married in King’s Landing he wasn’t drunken. Sometimes he got drunk—she’ll never forget their wedding night—but that wasn’t his perpetual state.

He’s a dwarf, it’s true. His arms and legs are shorter than normal, and if she studies him enough, yes, maybe his head is a little larger than a normal man’s. But he’s not really _ugly_. His face is pleasant enough to look that, even with the scar. She finds herself thinking back to Margaery’s words— _especially_ with the scar. And she knows he’s not without muscles. She can see them ripple under his tunic sometimes, when he’s mounting his horse or moving firewood. His form isn’t repellant, not by any definition of the word. At times, it could even be considered pleasant.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a triumphant cry. She looks quizzically at the source, Tyrion’s sellsword.

“That’s a town, boys!”

She follows his line of sight and sees what he’s referring to, a group of buildings in the distance, smoke curling up in the air from the chimneys. She sees several of the men grin in relief, and a couple spurn their horses into a gallop to ride ahead and find accommodations.

Tyrion pulls his horse along next to hers. “Thank the gods,” he says. “Seven knows how many of us would make it to King’s Landing if we had to eat more of  Talton’s soup.”

\---

That night, Sansa can hardly contain her excitement when the innkeeper presents them with bread, wine, and a roasted pig.

The company of men dig into the meal as if they’re starved; which, if Sansa is honest, is close to the truth considering how many of them likely can’t stomach what they’ve been eating. She tries to be polite and eat slowly to savor the food, but she can feel her stomach growl, and _gods_ , the pig smells good.

She sips her wine slowly at first, but as the night goes on, she decides she doesn’t care. She trusts the men she’s with, and they’re not paying her any mind anyway. So she’s gone through a few cups by the time the lemon cakes come out, and she can’t stop the laugh of delight that escape her.

She’s seated next to Tyrion and Talton, but they haven’t spoken much yet, too busy enjoying their meal. At the noise, though, Tyrion smiles at her. She had noticed that he, too, had had several cups of wine.

“They’re you’re favorite, aren’t they?” He asks, though it’s more of a statement.

“Delicious,” She agrees, covering her face as she tries to cover her full mouth.

He laughs at that. For a second she’s offended—she is _trying_ to be polite—but then dissolves into laughter as well. Tyrion doesn’t care. He has crumbs in his _mustache_.

She stops laughing and stares at them intently, wondering if he’ll notice them. No, she thinks, he probably won’t. They’ll stay there until the next day. So, decided, she reaches over, places a hand on his face, and swipes her thumb across his upper lip. He freezes, staring at her, but in a second they’re gone and she pulls back her hand, proud.

He’s still looking at her.

“Crumbs,” She says, suddenly realizing what she’s done. “They got caught, in your,” She gestures helplessly at her face, forgetting the word.

“Mustache,” He finishes for her. He’s still looking at her intently, and his eyes unsettle her, make her squirm in her seat.

“Yes!” She says, nodding. “You’re welcome.”

He smiles, and just like that, the moment is passed. “Thank you my lady. I could have never gotten them myself.”

And they dissolve into laughter again.

By the time the meal is finished, their entire company is drunk, herself included. She doesn’t usually do this, and she scolds herself as she pours some water into her again-empty cup. She has a feeling she is going to regret several things in the morning, but at the moment, she isn’t sure she cares. She’s tired of being cold, responsible Lady Stark.

So when the band starts to play some bawdy song she doesn’t recognize, she pushes her seat back, and walks to the side of the room with intent. Someone usually asks her to dance, and she scans the room, looking for a suitable partner.

It isn’t long before a handsome boy, no older than ten and eight, walks up to her with a grin. “Looking to dance?” He inquires, but he already knows the answer, and holds out his hand expectantly. She’s only miffed at his lack of courtesy for a moment before she remembers that no one knows who she is, and it’s highly likely that everyone in the room has had too much to drink. So she takes his hand, and off they go.

He’s a terrible partner, probably some stable boy finished after a day’s work, but he’s enthusiastic and friendly, which is enough for her to have a good time. She trips over her feet at the end, falling to the ground inelegantly. She looks to see if anyone’s noticed, but thankfully, everyone seems to be too busy enjoying themselves to pay attention.

The boy helps her up and pulls her aside, handing her a cup of water off a table. “You alright, miss?”

“Yes,” She replies breathlessly, sipping from the cup, glancing over at him. “What’s your name?”

“Broden. And yours?”

“Sansa.” She says, studying his face for a change. There is none, and she relaxes. He has no idea who she is.

“You’re a better dancer than me, Sansa,” He takes a deep gulp from a mug, of what she’s pretty sure is ale. “We should do this again sometime, you could teach me.”

She looks across the room, at her own table. She starts when she finds that Tyrion’s watching her. He looks away just as quickly as her eyes meet his. “I… yes, Broden. We should,” She stands, distracted. “I have to go. Thank you for the dance.”

She doesn’t wait to hear his response, turning and striding back to her seat. She slides in next to Tyrion. He’s studying his cup intently.

“What do you think you’ll find in there?” She teases, and reaches over to tilt the cup so she can peer in with him.

He lets his eyes meet hers, then, and she notices how close they are. That her hand is covering his. And the way he’s looking at her…

She should certainly move away. It’s probably the wine, but she can’t bring herself to.

He does, instead, gently extricating himself from her grasp and sitting back in his chair.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, she does the same, clearing her throat.

“Perhaps more wine, my lady.” He breaks the silence between them. He gestures towards the empty flagon. “We seem to have run out.”

“That’s likely for the best, I think.” She replies.

“Yes, I think so too.” He takes a moment, lets out a heavy sigh. “I think it’s time I retired. I bid you a good night.”

“And you.” She says, and watches him make his way through the crowd to the stairs.

She doesn’t really want to stay after that. She’s tired, she realizes. It was a long day, and she hasn’t slept in a real bed in several days. So she too finds her room and collapses into bed.

\---

She wakes suddenly, disoriented, and it takes her a second to put herself together.

But she quickly realizes she didn’t _wake_ , she was _awoken_. She’s facing the ground, her legs held tightly behind her by a think pair of arms. She tries to scream, but her mouth is gagged. Even her hands are bound, so her violent beating against her attacker’s back aren’t doing anything. Fear takes over, and she panics, trying to squirm, kick, _anything_ to get out of his hold.

But it’s pointless. He’s strong. It’s the middle of the night, and everyone’s asleep. No one hears her muffled yells as she’s carried down the stairs and out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh... I'm like, sort of sorry, but also? This was a long-ass chapter and y'all know she's going to live because this is fanfiction, so just sit back and enjoy the ride. 
> 
> (And the new season comes on in legit a week. What blessed times we live in.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion’s shaken awake far too early in the morning by one of Talton’s men.
> 
> He groans, rolling over and squinting against the morning sun that’s peeking through the windows. “Is it really necessary to leave at the crack of dawn?” He complains.
> 
> The man glares at him. “We’re not leaving. Lady Stark’s been taken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I missed last week! I have a Calc final in a few days, so I've been stuck in a hellhole of integration and series for a while. Should continue posting regularly now. 
> 
> Also, I won't even lie, I have no idea why I did this. I know I said plot was coming, but nah. I'm just trying to get it over with as soon as I can and get back to the fluff and angst, which is all I really want to write anyway.

Tyrion’s shaken awake far too early in the morning by one of Talton’s men.

He groans, rolling over and squinting against the morning sun that’s peeking through the windows. “Is it really necessary to leave at the crack of dawn?” He complains.

The man glares at him. “We’re not leaving. Lady Stark’s been taken.”

-

After that revelation, it only takes Tyrion a few seconds to become alert enough to shove the boy aside, dress himself, and thunder down the stairs to confront Talton.

“ _Taken_?” He says, grabbing the man’s doublet. “I’m awaken by your men to find that you allowed my _wife_ to be _taken_ in the night like a wildling slag? Where was her guard? Who has her?”

The knight shoves him away, glaring. “Her guard’s throat was slit and discovered by a maid early this morning. I _allowed_ nothing. As for who has her, we don’t know yet. This—” he holds out a scroll, “was delivered by a kitchen boy this morning.”

Tyrion nearly growls aloud. Logically, he knows Talton isn’t to blame, that under normal circumstances a single guard would be plenty to guard a lady traveling incognito. Still, he finds his mind clouded with anger. Sansa has been through years of torment and abuse, and just when she thought she was safe, traveling with her husband, her family guard, she was snatched from under their noses.

He was surprised enough that she’d opened up to him in the earlier weeks. If she survives this, he feels sure she never will again.

Tyrion takes the parchment proffered and skims the words.

_We have Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, sister of Aegon Targaryen….. If he does not arrive to treat at the Neck in two day’s time…_

It then details various ways she could be killed or maimed if full compliance was not given.

Tyrion grimaces. “Have you—”

“We received a raven from Lord Stark this morning,” Talton interrupts, nodding. “It appears whoever is behind this planned well in advance—the same threat arrived at Winterfell yesterday. He should arrive by nightfall.”

The Lord Lannister hands the parchment back and folds his hands. “Bring me the kitchen boy and the innkeeper. I’d like a word.”

Talton looks at Tyrion warily. “We’ve already interrogated the boy. He remembers nothing of the man who paid him.”

“Not to sound skeptical, but I imagine his memory will be recovered under appropriate duress. Bring them to me.”

\--

Typically, Tyrion doesn’t condone torture. It’s tedious, time consuming, and a little immoral. If the subject truly knows nothing, they’ll spill all matter of lies to stop the pain.

One must handle the matter delicately for results.

The boy is handsome, strong. His arms are thick, shoulders broad, legs long. His brows furrow as he watches Tyrion circle him, like a hawk surveying his prey.

It’s the same boy who danced with Sansa the night before.

Tyrion can see the fear in his eyes. _Good_ , he thinks. He should be afraid. Tyrion is angry, angrier than he can ever remember being. A little scared, too, and he knows that the combination will make him dangerous right now, both to himself and those around him.

He finds that he doesn’t care.

Even if he hadn’t been particularly inclined to care about the boy who delivered a note detailing his wife’s kidnapping, he certainly isn’t when he’s faced with the visage she had smiled upon so prettily last night. It’s quite a coincidence.

The kitchen boy knows something.

“What is your name?” Tyrion inquires quietly, stopping in front of the chair to face the boy.

“Broden, milord.”

“Broden.” Tyrion tests the name on his tongue, rolls it around in his mind. “Tell me, Broden, who gave you the note to give to Ser Talton?”

“I never saw his face.” He says quickly. Too quickly. “It was dark.” He wasn’t trained for this, clearly. Wasn't taught how to lie.

“Alright,” Tyrion says, “Let’s say I believe you. You’re telling the truth, you have no idea who gave it to you. Now, what about the man who told you to come to the feast last night and ask Lady Sansa to dance?”

 Fear flickers briefly in the Broden’s eyes. He swallows subtly, jaw clenching.

 Tyrion leans in closer, close enough for his breath to warm his cheeks. “Did you see _his_ face?”

“I had- I had asked for the night off, milord.” He claims, stuttering a little. “I had wanted a break, and I didn’t know she was a Lady, truly.”

The boy is an idiot.

 Tyrion tsks, pacing around the chair again. “See, I’d be inclined to believe you if I hadn’t spoken to the cook. She says you told her a few hours before that you wanted the night off. That your mother was ill.” He stops. “Somehow, I find it difficult to believe you’d be asking a girl to dance at a feast you’re attending while your mother is deathly ill. You see, Broden, I believe you danced with Lady Sansa so you could slip something in the drink you so thoughtfully provided her. The drug was given to you, I suspect, by the same man who gave you the note to deliver this morning.”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even give her a drink!”

Tyrion’s gaze hardened. “And now you’re proving yourself a liar. I was there. You procured you both a glass of wine, I believe.”

Broden doesn’t flinch, but there’s a tremble in his tone. “Even if I did, what reason would I have to drug a woman I don’t know?”

“I suspect it was for this,” Tyrion drops a small bag of coin on the ground. The boy’s eyes grow fearful for a moment. “That much gold could buy—Well, I don’t know. Bronn. What would you buy?”

Bronn picked the bag up, weighed it in his hands. “A night with a few whores. A few horses. If I were the type to settle, I’d say a small farmhouse.”

Tyrion _tsks_ at the boy. “That’s quite a step up from a bastard kitchen boy, isn’t it?” He eyes the boy in disgust. He’s shivering. Likely to start whimpering for mercy any moment. Yes, he’s nearly broken. Tyrion turns and walks toward the door, calling over his shoulder. “Bronn, continue until his memories return to him.”

There’s a crunch and then a low scream before he shuts the door behind him.

-

Sansa awakens in the morning, light streaming through to her eyes. She’s blindfolded, bound to a tree. She struggles against her ties for a moment, but quickly realizes it’s a pointless affair.

She hears a thundering of hooves behind her, and then the crunching of leaves under someone’s feet. “Who’s there?” She demands. “What do you want?”

Rough hands grab her face for a moment and the blindfold comes off. She squints against the morning sun, unable to make out the assailant.

“Apologies, milady.” The man leans back on his heels, studying her face. She returns the favor; he’s tall, broad. She doesn’t quite recognize him, but some of his features seem familiar enough to tug at her gut. “I did tell him to be gentle, but clearly I’ll need to speak with him. How do you feel?”

She grunts at that. “Well, I am tied to a tree.” She tugs at her restraints, raising a brow. “My head aches. If I were a fool, I might say it was the wine. But I have a feeling it has more to do with whatever was slipped into it.”

He doesn’t look overly concerned. “Yes, I think that was mentioned. Head isn't too bad, though, is it?”

“Who are you?” She asks again, ignoring his question. “What do you want with me?”

“Nothing with you, really. I just have a few requests for your brother, and I felt he might be more inclined to grant them if I had a knife to your throat.” He stands. “But not to worry. You won’t be harmed, so long as I get what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I only want that which was taken from my family.”

She gives him a quizzical look. “Your family?”

“The Freys.”

-

Bronn retrieves Tyrion within the hour after he’d walked away from the stable.

Broden’s face is swollen, and his leg has a new angle to it that Tyrion is sure wasn’t there before. He feels a short bout of guilt, but it’s gone fast enough. Sansa could be anywhere.

“Well?” Bronn prompts the boy. “Go on, tell the Lord Lannister what you told me.”

His head doesn’t lift at all and his breath catches in his throat when he speaks. “I don’t know the man who took her, but I know he was working—” He coughs, blood and spittle escaping his mouth. He exhales in a long, raspy breath. “He said she’d be alright. The Freys only wanted her to negotiate with your brother.”

The Freys? Tyrion remembers that Arya had mentioned them once, between battles. She’d killed them all in one fell swoop. Left them gargling in poison at the very dinner tables her brother had sat in the Red Wedding. Justice, she’d said.

He’d already learned of the Lady’s prowess in a fight, but in that moment he’d truly feared her.

He had also, at the time, thought of possible implications the move could have had. If she hadn’t gotten every Frey, a vindictive man looking for revenge could be in her future. He had assumed these would likely concern only Arya, who could fend for herself well enough. He hadn’t thought for even a second one would, or could, go for Sansa. He curses under his breath.

“So there’s that mystery solved,” Bronn announces. He points his sword at the boy’s throat. “Shall I kill him?”

Tyrion’s tempted, but decides against it. “For now, we’ll plan to allow the Lady Stark and her brother to decide. Have Talton put a guard on him, in case he gets any ideas.”

He looks at the boy. “Anything else you’d like to say? I suggest you do so now. If I find out you withheld information, well...” He tsks. “I assume you’ve heard about Lannisters and their debts.”

Broden shakes his head. “I did drug her, milord, but only with essence of nightshade to keep her asleep when they came. I swear, on my life, I meant her no harm.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Tyrion replies. “For if a hair on her head has been harmed, that is the price you will pay.”

He leaves then, going to find Talton. They spend the rest of the day considering possible safe-havens or places the Frey men could be, but it’s mostly fruitless. There’s so much land to cover there’s no one spot they could identify as a camp.

Tyrion’s mind is only thing he has to his name, the only thing he can claim as an asset. He has no physical prowess, no particular fighting ability. He thinks, and he does it well. He doesn’t have a lot of information to think _on_ this time, but he has enough to spend the time until Jon arrives productively.

He can guess at what the Freys want; he’d put his money on the return of their house seat. But he knows that giving the Twins, such a strategic place for the North, to an enemy of the Starks is a terrible request to make of Jon.

He also knows that the man will do it, would likely do anything, to save his sister.

Talton and he are going over the placement of their men at the neck when the door is swung open, and Jon strides into the room, footfalls heavy on the wooden floor.

He stops at the table, and his gaze on Tyrion’s face is nearly heavy enough to make him shrink back. But the tone of his next words, though quiet, is far more terrifying.

“Where is my sister?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WoW those GoT episodes though, am I right??? 
> 
> There was a sprinkle of Sanrio’s, which I’m here for. Gendrya is one of my favorite ships, and the Jaime and Brienne scene had me crying in the club. The writers treated us RIGHT last night. 
> 
> Anyway, comments/thoughts below!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is still a prisoner, Jon is moody as hell, and Tyrion is concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the new tags, people. 
> 
> So this chapter originally clocked in at 5,000 words, which just kind of... happened? the day before my Calc final. Needless to say, I cut it down a bit. Also, I noticed while rereading that there are probably some gaping problems in terms of the way I write travel and such. I know nothing about how long you can travel on horseback in a day, alas, so please ignore how unrealistic that gets. I'd also like to apologize for inserting original characters, which is definitely not a habit for me. I definitely hate original characters in fanfics, but with all the people I killed off in the beginning I've got to have some new blood to play with.

After the Frey man leaves, Sansa is left alone for a while. Someone comes and gives her some water and a bit of dried goat, but beyond that no one speaks to her. She’s grown bored, tied to a tree for most of the day. She was guided out past the camp by the Frey man to make water, but besides that she’s been sitting uncomfortably against a pine. The ties clearly aren’t coming off and no one is willing to loosen them or release her to sleep.

She can’t really see anything from where she’s positioned. She thinks there’s a camp behind her, but it’s difficult to tell with the limited visibility she has when she strains her neck to catch a glimpse. It’s certainly loud enough for it; she hears a few horses and sees several men pass by her to take a piss behind the thick trees.

After dusk, she hears footfalls behind her and she sighs in relief. She’s grown thirsty again, and she’s hoping to claim she needs to make water again. Her wrists ache.

The man who looks down at her is unfamiliar. She’s only interacted with two men besides the Frey and they only stayed long enough to guide water and food down her throat.

She doesn’t like the predatory look in this one’s eyes.

“You are a pretty thing,” He rasps, gaps in his mouth grinning down at her.

He crouches down to meet her eyes and she unconsciously flinches back. “Very pretty. I’d heard you resembled your mother, had a Tully beauty to rival the Queen’s, but my…” The back of a dirty hand slides down a lock of hair that sits on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t believe it until I’d seen it with my own eyes.”

He’s close enough now that she can smell the ale on his breath. “Sir,” Sansa tries quietly, “Would you tell Lord Frey I need to speak with him?” She doesn’t want to tremble, because she’s _stronger_ than that now, she’s not the scared little girl she was anymore. But her lip won’t still and all she can think is that it’s happening _again_ , just when she thought she was safe with Tyrion and her brother, _still_ the gods let her be taken and she’ll be used, and the look in his eyes says that he sees her terror and he _likes_ it, and now she’s shaking and her breath is coming _fast_ , too fast-

He chuckles lowly at her, drops his hand, but leans in still closer. “ _Lord_ Frey,” He says mockingly, “has been very greedy, keeping you for himself. I think he should start sharing, don’t you?” His hand falls to her leg and grips it firmly.

When she doesn’t respond, eyes squeezed shut and face turned aside, he growls and wraps his hand around her neck. “I’m talking to you, girl.”

She still doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ now even if she wanted to, struggling to get air down her lungs. He releases her after a moment and she gasps down air, pushing her back against the tree frantically, feet slipping as she tries to get back.

 He slaps her, hard, and she cries out. “Be quiet, bitch,” his hands go to the hem of her skirts, “or I’ll gag you.”

She screams again, still struggling, because _never again_ she’d said, _never_ , she’d die first, but he slaps her again, shoves a wad of cloth in her mouth.

He sits back on her legs to keep them pinned and pulls a small knife out of his belt. He studies it for a moment, metal glinting from the torchlight. “This is my favorite,” He says as he reaches for her collar, cutting it down to the top of her corset. “It’s small, but it’s a sharp little thing.” The blade scrapes at her sternum and she knows she’s bleeding, but she doesn’t feel it anymore, not really.. He swipes at the blood with his thumb. “Now stay still.”

She finally does as she’s told, her mind slipping away. She focuses on the gentle sway of the leaves above her, the moon hanging low in the sky, and her skirts are going up, up, but her mind is going _out_ …

The man falls onto her, face in her neck and she braces herself, shutting her eyes.

But he’s not moving.

She opens her eyes and sees the Frey man standing above her, sword streaked red. The warmth on her neck isn’t from the man’s kiss, it’s from his blood. He’s choking in it.

The Frey pushes him off of her, and her attacker’s face crunches when Frey’s boot lands on it, knocking him out for the last time.

For the first time in months, she lets herself cry.

-

The Frey man puts her in a tent after that. Her dress is soaked in blood, hers and her attacker’s. The Frey man doesn’t know she’s injured, and she doesn’t tell him. She won’t have another set of hands on her here, no matter their intention.

He tries to speak to her, offers men’s clothes, a washing bucket if she wants. He gives up soon enough but leaves the clothes and water.

She doesn’t want them, really, doesn’t want to take off her clothes in this camp, but she can’t stand the man’s blood on her any longer, it’s _staining_ her, and so she washes and changes as quickly as she can.

Three men guard outside; still, she doesn’t sleep that night. Every time her eyes close Ramsay’s there, sliding into her bed, eyes glinting, hands taking.

Frey coaxes water down her throat in the morning, but her stomach churns at the sight of food and she turns it away. “Fine,” He says, “But you need your strength. We’re riding today.”

When she doesn’t say anything, he sighs and crouches to look her in the eye. “Did you hear me? We’re riding today. To see your brother. You should eat.”

She still doesn’t speak. He curses under her breath but leaves her alone, slipping out the tent.

“Get her on a horse.” The Frey man tells his men.

-

Jon was angry when he arrived, very angry, and he lashes out at the men all night as they ready themselves for the journey the next day. Tyrion doesn’t think Jon really blames them, but he understands the rage. It’s been simmering under his skin as well, waiting to come out.

So he let the man yell and curse and question until he ran out of breath, face reddened.

Tyrion briefs him on the information he’s gathered; a Frey has taken Sansa. He’s unlikely to have actually hurt her, given what Tyrion believes is his goal, but not impossible. They don’t know where they are. The men couldn’t find a trace of them. He doesn’t mention the kitchen boy yet; though he has no sympathy, he feels sure that Jon’s decision will be hasty and later regretted.

The Lord Stark rode in with ten men, but forty more followed and arrived in the middle of the night. They plan to leave for the Neck in the morning and arrive before dusk.

Jon brought several archers to place around the meeting point and the best fighters he had. Tyrion advises against it; the Frey could get jumpy and hurt Sansa. Jon cedes the fighters but insists on the archers, saying that they were trained for stealth and could be useful if Sansa is threatened.

They plan throughout the night. Tyrion sleeps only a few fitful hours, and by the look of Jon’s face in the morning when they mount their horses, he suspects that he did the same.

-

Sansa can’t bring herself to enjoy the ride to the Neck, not when she’s surrounded by enemies, but they have at least let her ride alone, though her horse is tied to the Frey man’s. She’s exhausted from not having slept the night before, her mind sluggish. She refuses to speak.

The Frey notices her jump when someone offers her a wineskin and pulls his horse aside hers, handing her his skin. “Drink.” He commands. She does. 

She’s trying to come back to herself. She knows what’s happening; during her marriage with Ramsay, she frequently pulled herself from the world around her. It was easier. She’d said she would be strong after she fled Ramsay. She was a Stark, and Starks were wolves. They fought. She wanted to, truly, but her mind had rebelled against her with the reminder of Ramsay. He no longer breathed, but she feared his final words were true, that perhaps he’d always be a part of her.

She thinks the Frey won’t hurt her yet. He needs her unharmed to negotiate with Jon; he’d cursed at the bruise forming on her left cheek that morning. But if Jon denies him, she doesn’t think he’ll hesitate to hurt her. He’d protected her earlier, had given her food and drink and clothes, yes, but that was for Jon. Maybe even to manipulate her, to convince Jon to keep his word.

After he’d revealed his family name, Sansa had quickly deduced his intentions. She briefly considered revenge but scrapped the idea; Arya may have implied the Starks had to do with the Frey family’s demise to Walder Frey’s wife, but it wasn’t really concrete enough information to kidnap a Stark over. Besides, she would be dead by now if that was the case.

Arya had told her she’d killed every Frey in the line of succession, save the children. Sansa hadn’t believed her at first, thinking there had to be at least one left. But she’d heard no claim to the Twins in the months afterward and had assumed it to be true.

She wasn’t sure exactly which Frey her kidnapper was. There were too many to keep track of; Maester Luwin hadn’t even bothered teaching them the names of the sons. He had a Northern tilt in his voice, but beyond that she had nothing to go on. She didn’t know who he was. Still, there was little question to his intentions. He would use her to force Jon to give him the Twins.

And Jon would do it.

The rest of the day no one talks to her. The man let her keep the water and tries to make her eat again at midday, but she ignores him. He leaves her with a bit of venison anyway, which she doesn’t touch, even when her stomach twists and groans with hunger.

She hears Fever River before she sees it. There are many waterfalls, she remembers. She’s never been but remembers Maester Luwin’s lessons well.

They reach the top of the hill that overlooks the valley they’re to meet Jon in. He’s already there; she can make out figures and horses by the river.

She hears Frey speak lowly beside her. She watches as he hands a roll of parchment to one of his men and he sends him down and she takes a deep breath. It’s nearly over.

-

Jon leaves most of his men over a small rise, bringing only five with him into the valley by the river. The rest begin making camp, readying themselves to fight if called.

Tyrion and Bronn ride down with the party. They’re a little early; it’s a few minutes before dusk. Jon did this intentionally, to give the archers time to find places and send scouts.

It hasn’t been long before one such scout informs Jon that the Freys are nearly there; there are only thirty men coming from the South. Lady Sansa was with them, he confirmed. It was difficult to see from the distance he’d been, but there was definitely a red-haired woman on horse. He didn’t think she was hurt, but he couldn’t see much.

The sun is just over the horizon when they arrive; the men stay at the top of the hill. A single rider approaches.

He stops a few feet from them and dismounts. “I have a message for Aegon Targaryen,” He announces, parchment in hand.

Jon comes. “I prefer Lord Stark,” He says.

The rider hands the paper over. “I’m to bring your reply, milord,” He answers, ignoring the jab.

Jon reads the paper quickly, then looks up at the messenger. “If I come unarmed, am I assured he will as well?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Very well.” Jon nods his assent. “I agree to his terms. Tell him to come down.”

The man rides up the hill, and it only takes a moment before four riders arrive a few hundred feet down the river.

This had been expected. Weapons are thrown in a pile and left guarded by the remaining men. Jon, Talton, Bronn, and he ride to meet them.

Sansa doesn’t come. She’s with the remainder of the Frey men, awaiting Jon’s assent to the terms. Tyrion strains to see her, but the horses at the top of the hill are nothing more than specks from this distance.

Jon dismounts his horse. “Who comes to speak?” He asks.

No one responds for a moment. The Frey men stare, unmoving, until a brown-haired man finally dismounts and approaches. He stops in front of Jon. “I do. The prince, I assume?”

“Yes. And who are you?”

“Lord Jacor of House Frey.” The man replies. When Jon looks unsurprised, he sighs. “I didn’t think the boy would keep his mouth shut.”

“Is my sister unharmed?” Jon questions, ignoring the comment. “Where is she?”

“She’s up there,” He cocks his head towards his men, “as I said she would be. And yes, she’s unharmed.”

Jon glares at the man, crosses his arms. “Then speak your piece. What do you want?”

Jacor knits his brow together. “I only want what was taken from me. I know you had trouble with my family, your Grace, and that they betrayed you, but I had no part in that. I was fostered at Last Hearth my entire life. I never met my father. I have no ill will toward your family, I swear to you.”

Jon is already angry, and from the look on his face, Tyrion grows concerned that he’ll try to strangle the man soon. “ _No ill will_? You just kidnapped a member of that family and brought her here to ransom!”

“But I have not harmed her,” Jacor says, hands up. “I have no wish to.”

“Those are your terms, then?” Jon asks. “You want the Twins?”

“And Lady Sansa’s hand in marriage,” Tyrion starts at that. _Sansa_? And at Jon’s incredulous expression, Jacor explains, “I told you I have not harmed her. I will be good to her, I swear it. We will unite our houses, so we can both be safe from betrayal of the other.”

Jon’s shaking his head, rage flashing in his eyes. “You think I would agree to marry her to her captor? You think _she_ would agree to marry her captor?”

The man’s face hardens, and Tyrion starts to worry. They hadn’t planned for this; they thought Jon would agree to the Twins and Sansa would be returned to them. Jon was getting angrier and soon he’d stop thinking clearly and risk Sansa’s life. He had to intervene.

He clears his throat, loudly enough to get their attention. “Unfortunately, that would be impossible, considering the Lady Sansa is already married. To me.”

Jacor scoffs. “The entire kingdom knows it was a false marriage. My man tells me you were traveling South to have it annulled, anyway.”

Tyrion glares at the taller man, ignoring Jon’s skeptical look. “Your man is wrong.”

“It’s of no matter, anyway.” Jacor says. “I don’t care. You’ll have it annulled first, and then I’ll marry her. Give her children to continue the Stark line, if you’d like.” He looks to Jon. “I know you’re a man of honor, true to your word as Ned Stark was. Swear to me that you will give me the Twins, will give me your sister’s hand, and I’ll allow her to return to you until the wedding.”

This is going terribly wrong, and Tyrion doesn’t know how to stop it. Jon will agree to the terms, he has to or they’ll hurt Sansa, and worse, he really _will_ give her to a Frey for the rest of her life, because Jacor has the right of it: Jon doesn’t back on his word.

Jon is considering his words, and Tyrion’s mind is moving rapidly, struggling to find a solution, anything to fix this because they _can’t_ do this to Sansa, she doesn’t deserve this, she just wants freedom and she was so close.

But before he can think of something to say, Jon is nodding and shaking the man’s arm. “Very well. You’ll have your terms.”

Jacor smiles. “You give your word?”

“Aye, you have my word. Now bring me my sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, I might update again in a couple days. I already have the next chapter written and I'm kind of impatient about posting because I'm a greedy lil' bitch who needs gratification immediately after writing something. Think of it as me making up for skipping a couple weeks ago.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes back to camp with Tyrion. Jon does smart things, for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I really am here posting twice in a week. God bless y'all who keep commenting- you're the best, coming up with every different reason Jon might pull through. Such faith, we love it. Anyway, enjoy this installment. I am now officially breaking with canon, considering how short that battle was. Damn. Hope you like it!

The Frey man rides down soon after the messenger returns and she can see her brother ride out to meet him. They only speak for a minute or two before one of the men down there whistle to the man holding her reins. He hands them over and nods. She’s free to go.

She urges her horse into a gallop down the slope, halting beside the river and jumping off to go to her brother. He wraps her in his arms, holding her to his chest. A sob escapes her and she clings to his shoulders, burying her nose next to his face. He shushes her, a hand stroking her hair.

“Are you alright?” He whispers quietly, pulling back to examine her bruised cheek. She nods rapidly, and he breathes in relief. “Go with Tyrion, Sansa. I have to speak with Lord Frey.”

She hadn’t noticed that Tyrion was there but is happy enough to go with him. He approaches her with a soft “my lady,” and leads her to a horse. She stops beside it, leaning her head against it and sighing. She can feel him watching her, warily, as if she would spook at the slightest movement.

Right now, she can’t say that he’s wrong.

She turns to look at him wordlessly, waiting for him to speak, to tell her to mount so they could go to camp.

He doesn’t. Instead, his brows furrow and she sees a flare of anger in his eyes. She realizes he’s looking at her face; she’d forgotten.

“Who hit you?” He says quietly.

She swallows nervously and looks away. “Can we to the camp first, please?” She replies, ignoring the question and hoping he won’t press the issue.

He doesn’t, and she follows him in silence.

-

He doesn’t know what happened while Sansa was with the Freys, but he does know that she’s quiet, too quiet as she nibbles at the venison he’d brought her. He isn’t sure if he should ask, but he can’t not. “What happened?” He asks. Her eyes snap to his, and then down and she shifts in her seat. She’s uncomfortable, he realizes. He shakes his head. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” He clarifies, wincing.

“I—” She stops for a second and squares her shoulders. “I was attacked. One of his men.”

“Attacked?” He asks, dread building in his stomach.

She nods. “They weren’t supposed to touch me, but one tried to anyway.”

“Tried to--?” He starts, but calms himself. “So you weren’t—I mean, he didn’t—”

 “No. Almost, but the Frey killed him first.”

He stares at her, shocked. “Are you alright? Should I get someone to-“ He makes to stand, abruptly setting down his cup, but a soft hand on his arm stops him. She shakes her head. “Please, don’t.”

He stills, sitting back down. “But you’re alright?”

“Yes, but—” She leans back and looks at him for a moment. Her eyes are unsettling, examining him. She looks hesitant. “I might need help with something, if you could get bandages?”

“Of course.”

He tells the guard outside the tent to find some, only waiting a moment before he returns and hands some over, along with a small bowl of healing ointment.

Tyrion takes the goods into the tent and sets them on the table beside her. “So you were injured?” He queries, trying to make himself busy and not smother her with concern. Though he is concerned, very concerned.

“He cut my dress while he was attacking me.”

“That’s why you’re wearing—” He gestures at her body, unsure of how to phrase the question.

“Yes.” She reaches up to her throat, and he turns away quickly when he realizes she’s unlacing the shirt she’d arrived in.

“Tyrion,” She says. “It’s alright.”

Hesitantly, he turns to face her. The shirt still keeps her modesty, but he can make out a long red cut that runs down her chest. His eyes widen and he looks back up to her face. Her cheeks are red, but she doesn’t move. “I don’t think I could see it well enough to clean it,” She explains. “It’s too high, and I don’t want to hurt myself. Would you…” She trails off, looking pointedly at the bowl of water and cloth on the table.

It takes him a moment to understand what she’s asking, but he does. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He turns to the bowl, dipping the cloth in slowly and squeezing out the excess water. He takes a moment to steady himself. She was nearly raped; there’s no chance she wants to be ogled, especially by the likes of him. He has to be cautious.

He turns to her, finally, and gestures to the chair. She sits and turns her head to the side, waiting for him to begin.

He approaches her slowly. He tries to stay far enough away from her for propriety, but it’s impossible for him to reach, so he inches closer, waiting on her protest. But it doesn’t come, so he focuses on the wound. He’s no maester but he doesn’t think it’s terribly deep, though it certainly warrants the bandages she asked for. It’s long, though, easily stretching six inches down her chest. He can’t even see it all; the end disappears under the still-done laces.

He touches the cut gently with the cloth, looking to her for a reaction, but she barely flinches. Satisfied, he continues, wiping the crusted blood until her skin is clear. He has to part the laces a bit more to get to the rest, so he hesitates. “Sansa, may I..”

She doesn’t immediately reply, biting her lip, but soon enough she nods her assent.

He gently unlaces the shirt until he can get to the rest, and pointedly tries to ignore the fact that he’s stroking the valley between her breasts as he cleans. When he’s satisfied it’s not infected, he dips his thumb into the paste and smooths it over her skin.

Sansa has been watching him silently until now, as he presses the bandage down. “Thank you,” She says quietly.

“Of course.” He lets his hand fall and meets her eyes, already looking at him.

Her eyes are always so expressive, he thinks. Her face can be difficult to read, guarded as she’s trained it to be, but her eyes say what she’s thinking. Now, he thinks they say that she knows him. She looks at him as if she knows everything about him, every thought that passes his mind. He usually doesn’t like it when people see through him this well; it’s turned out to be a weakness. But Sansa doesn’t make him feel exploited. He feels understood.

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t thought to, and she hasn’t either. Her lips part briefly, as if she wants to say something but isn’t quite sure what yet.

Before she has the chance a horn sounds.

The two jerk away at the noise and leave the tent to investigate. Tyrion knows the horn meant they were attacking or being attacked; from the way the men are moving and saddling horses, he can tell it’s the former.

He turns to one of Sansa’s guards. “What’s going on?”

“Lord Stark has ordered an attack on the Frey’s,” He replies. “We’re to stay with you and Lady Stark until he returns.”

“An attack?” Sansa says. “What’s happened?”

The guard looks to Tyrion, hesitating. Tyrion shakes his head at him, grasping Sansa’s elbow and guiding her back into the tent.

“What?” She demands, ire rising. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lord Frey had difficult terms. Jon agreed to them at the time, I didn’t think—”

“Terms? I thought he wanted the Twins.”

“He did,” Tyrion sits. “But he wanted your hand as well.”

“My-“ Sansa pauses, staring at him. “Jon told him I’d marry him?”

“Yes, but clearly he doesn’t mean to follow through with that—”

“No.” She stops him. “Were you going to tell me?”

For a split second she looks _hurt_ , and he finds himself at a loss for words. “I didn’t _know_ it was going to happen, Sansa.” He says finally.

She shakes her head. “Jon has never broken his word. Never,” She looks away, “You did know. Or at least you thought you knew.”

Tyrion grabs her hand, unthinking. “No! Sansa, _no_.” He pushes forcefully, “Even if Jon was going to try to marry you to him, I would’ve stopped it. I swear it to you. I’d have gone to Daenerys, I would’ve taken you away. Believe me, _please_ ,” He says, and he’s almost begging now, but he doesn’t care, because this is Sansa, and he doesn’t want to lose her now. “I would never allow you to be sold away again. Never.”

She’s upset still, but after a long moment of silence she nods, almost imperceptibly, and he breathes a sigh of relief, leaning back in his seat.

“But you should’ve told me.” She tells him, staring at their joined hands.

He swallows. “I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

She’s still staring at their hands, and he wonders if he should’ve let go by now. But she’s not doing anything to indicate that she doesn’t like it; maybe she needs comfort. He wouldn’t blame her, not after the ordeal she’s been through in the past two days alone, but he wouldn’t think she’d want _him_.

Then, there aren’t actually any other options at the moment.

 “I trust you,” She admits, breaking the silence. “There are three people in this world I trust, do you understand? Three. Trust is… hard, for me.”

He doesn’t know where she’s going with this. Still, he squeezes her hand, silently bidding her to continue.

“I care about you, and I trust you. But you can’t break that trust again. You cannot lie or hide the truth. If there’s something I need to know, you can’t just not tell me because you’re scared I’ll break. I know I seem fragile right now, but you need to know that every time I’m hurt, I heal. I won’t shatter. I know sometimes when you talk to me you think about whether what you’ll say will bother me, or scare me, or anger me. You speak like you did in King’s Landing, always plotting seven steps ahead. You have to stop,” She orders, finally looking him in the eye. “You say what you think, nothing more, nothing less. Not to me.”

For a long moment, he’s speechless.

He doesn’t know why she trusts him, much less why she cares about him. He has redeeming qualities, yes, but they mainly surface in the bed or in his wit. She knows nothing about the bed, and cares not for wit. She wants only truth. He has no idea how she’s equated him with that ideal. He’s always been known as a wily little dwarf. She cares for him? Trusts him?

“I know that your trust is a precious thing,” He says at last. “And I have no idea how I’ve earned it. What you’ve said is true, sometimes I am too cautious with my words around you. But my lady, it’s not because I think you’re weak.” He hesitates. “It’s only because I’ve started to regard you as a friend in the past weeks. I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m not very good at keeping friends.” She’s looking at him rather oddly, so he jokes, “especially none as pretty as yourself.”

“Tyrion, I like you _because_ you speak your mind. It’s the times you don’t I find taxing,” She asserts. “Besides, you forget that I’m no better with friendship. I don’t think I’ve had a real friend since I was a girl.”

“Very well,” He cedes, grabbing the flagon of wine on the table and making use of two of the empty cups. “I’ll endeavor to tell you everything on my mind. Though you should know, I’m far less clever than I say. It’s mostly gibberish.” He hands her a cup, which she accepts. “To friendship,” He toasts.

A smile quirks her lips, and she drinks.

-

Jon returns soon after they finish their first cups of wine. They’d defeated the Freys quickly; there was bloodshed, though not on their side. Jon had brought warriors to the meeting, trained and experienced in battle. Jacor had fewer men with little training and less loyalty. Most had fled at the sight of the Stark men. Those left were dealt with quickly.

Jon doesn’t come to her that night, sending word that he’d speak to her in the morning. She suspects he’s dealing with prisoners.

The hour grows late and her eyes grow heavy. The adrenaline of the day had kept her alert enough but she’s starting to remember that she didn’t sleep the night before. So she bids Tyrion goodnight and asks a man to lead her to her tent, then surrenders quickly to sleep.

She wakes in the early afternoon the next day, the sun high in the sky.

It doesn’t take long to find Jon, who’s talking with Talton. As she approaches he stops the conversation and smiles at her. “Sleep well?” He teases.

“Oh, stop,” She replies, raising a brow. She remembers well the days when their father had scolded he and Robb for missing breakfast. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He grins at her for a second longer, then shakes his head. “Just talking about what to do with the prisoners. I’m dealing with Frey in an hour. Not sure what to do with the rest of them.”

“Frey?” Her brow furrows. “What are you doing with him?”

“Execution.” He says grimly. 

-

She goes to the execution.

She supposes she goes for the justice of it; he’s being killed because he took her, after all. Jon stands by the wooden block, Longclaw in hand as the Frey man is brought out and shoved to his knees.

“Any last words?” Jon asks.

Jacor Frey spits. “You gave me your word.” He hisses. “I thought you were a man of honor, but you’re nothing more than an oathbreaker.”

“The gods do not heed an oath made at the point of a sword.” Jon answers. "I keep my honor by defending my family; it is you who have lost yours. Now, is that all you have to say?”

Frey spits again. Jon takes it as a yes.

“I, Aegon Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die for the kidnapping of Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

And then it’s over.

The few observers scatter quickly while the body is removed. Jon runs his sword through a cloth while he walks toward her, wiping it clean of blood. He stops in front of her. “Are you coming back to Winterfell?” He queries, sheathing his sword.

“No. No need to make the same journey twice. If Tyrion agrees, we’ll continue to King’s Landing as planned.”

Jon nods his assent, breaking eye contact to look at the rapidly disappearing camp. “I thought as much. You’ll take fifteen of my men with you.” 

She considers arguing with him, but she knows that look. Their father had the same set in his jaw when he made up his mind; there was no changing it now. Besides, she can't say that she won't feel safer with more men. “Very well,” She says. “How long will it take you to finish breaking camp?”

“An hour, maybe less. You and Tyrion can leave now, if you wish. Make the best of the daylight."

“I’ll tell him.” She replies, and hugs him. “I’ll be alright, Jon.”

“You won’t get kidnapped again?” He says into her hair.

She pats his back and leans back to look at him. “Promise.”

“Alright then, if you promise.” He smiles down at her. “Tell Dany I said hello.”

She chuckles at him and shoves his shoulder. “Yes, of course I’ll tell your lovely lady friend you miss her. Now off with you.”

He rolls his eyes, still smiling, but doesn’t deny it. “Goodbye, Sansa.”

“Goodbye Jon.”

They part ways, and soon she and Tyrion are continuing their journey south.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummm do y'all want to talk about that episode??? We only had like three people die?? We truly live in a time. Also, holy sHIT Sansa and Tyrion spoke? At length? About their marriage? And he kissed her hand? And they fought together to defend the innocent? What's happening?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a snowstorm. Opportunities abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm INCREDIBLY angry about that episode, and I have a lot of rage, but instead I decided to write fic. So here. Take this. Ignore your rage with me.

The additional men don’t slow them down as much as Sansa had thought they would.

They make nearly as good time as they had with only a half dozen; though they don’t make it to the next inn by the time the sun falls, Bronn says he’s certain they’ll make it to the next by the next evening.

It does take a little longer to set up camp, though her tent is set up first. Thankfully, someone spots a couple of stags at the edge of the clearing they’ve chosen for the night and takes them down. Sansa doesn’t know who saw them or who roasted them, but if she did she’d make Jon knight the man.

She knows she probably looks unseemly, eating as if she hadn’t had a meal in weeks, but it has been more than a day since she’d had anything very substantial, despite Tyrion’s best efforts. She takes time with her last bit, wondering if there’s any left.

She’s just resigned to retiring without checking ( _surely_ the men will need it more than she) when Tyrion appears holding two more servings and seats himself on the stump beside her. He proffers the second plate silently. She blushes. “Are you sure there’s enough—”

“Sansa,” Tyrion interrupts, arching a brow at her, eyes twinkling. “Just take it.” 

She takes it. She may be a lady, but she _is_ still hungry.

Tyrion is uncharacteristically silent as they eat. Perhaps it’s the cold, she thinks, watching him move closer still to the flames dancing in front of them. It gets colder every night; she’d be worried about sleeping outside for the next two weeks if they weren’t headed south.

Though, the wind has a sharp chill, traveling a little faster than normal; they’re not very far south yet, so it’s entirely possible that they’re in for a snowstorm. 

“You haven’t been to King’s Landing since you fled, have you?” Tyrion asks, disrupting her thoughts.

Has she returned to the place of her father’s death? Of her abuse at the hands of the boy king? Of her constant anxiety, constant worry about whether her façade was convincing enough, whether she would live to see the sun rise the next day? _No_ , she wants to say _, and I’d rather not return now._

Instead, she murmurs a quiet “no”.

He takes another swig of his glass, looks up at the stars. “I can’t imagine that you’re thrilled about going back, but I can tell you with relative confidence that it isn’t the place you remember.”

When she doesn’t respond for a moment, letting the silence hang in the air, he continues. “I trust you heard that the Red Keep burned during the siege?”

“Yes,” Sansa sets down her plate, finally emptied. “I heard your sister let wildfire take half the castle in her attempt to defend it.”

He sighs. “She was a mad one, wasn’t she?” He looks at her, “But yes, much of it burned. Daenerys is having it rebuilt, of course, and from the reports I’ve received, it’ll likely be nearly finished by the time we arrive.”

“I’m glad her Grace is having no trouble rebuilding the castle.” Sansa replies.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know if you knew, but the Tower of the Hand was part of that destroyed in the fire and then rebuilt. I’m no longer technically the Hand, of course, but that’s where I’ve stayed in the past. I just wanted to tell you, my lady, that if you didn’t wish to stay in the Maidenvault, there are many chambers you’re more than welcome to,” He looks at her, brow creasing. “If you would wish it, that is,” He adds hastily.

She sees the offer for what it is: he doesn’t want her to have to stay in the hostile place that harbors so many ghosts from her girlhood. He isn’t saying as much, but he doesn’t have to. He just… _knows_ , and she knows that he knows.

The gesture is… touching.

She’d thought of this before they’d even left Winterfell, when he told her they’d need to go to King’s Landing. She knew she never wanted to go back there, to walk the halls she’d been dragged through by the Kingsguard day after day, but she thought she could handle it. She still thinks that, but he’s offering, and she isn’t one for unnecessary pain.

“I’d like that.” She tells him, meeting his stare. “Thank you.” There’s another silence then, loaded and filled with… _something_ she can’t identify. Something thick, meaningful that hangs in the air when the two come to a silent understanding. They’ve been sharing those more and more recently.

They unsettle her. She clears her throat and breaks eye contact, instead looking back to the flames. “Despite your slightly troubling drinking habits and horrific and perpetual cheating in cyvasse,” She says lightly, “I think I’ll prefer your company to that of the ladies in court.”

He takes a second too long to respond, and she knows he, too, had been disoriented by the moment. He manages, though, mocking a gasp and feigning a hurt expression that is definitely overselling it. “You wound me! Are you impugning my honor? I would never!”

She quirks a brow. “My lord, I don’t believe I’ve ever played any game at all with you when you didn’t cheat.”

“How have I cheated at cards?” He asks, referring to the games they played at Winterfell. “They were yours!”

“You were counting them,” She accuses, not able to hold in her smile.

“Well,” Tyrion says, sipping his wine, “I don’t believe there’s anything in the rules about _not_ counting them.” His cup is drained then, and he looks down at it. Sansa finds it a bit ridiculous, but the look on his face nears a _pout_ at he stares at the bottom. She gets the flagon from her other side and hands it to him so he can refill it.  He takes in another mouthful before he thinks to ask. “Wait, how did you know?”

She can feel her cheeks redden as she tries to think of an answer. “I—I just noticed that you—”

But she’s taken too long and he’s figured it out. His face widens in a grin. “Lady Sansa, _you_ cheat at cards!”

“I do not!” She protests. It sounds weak even to her ears.

“But you do count them?”

“Only sometimes,” She insists. Which is true; as children, she hadn’t needed to bother with Robb or Jon or Father—they were so terrible she only had to look at their faces. It was only with Arya that she’d resorted to counting, a trick she’d learned after being frustrated one too many times by her younger sibling.

“Sometimes means yes,” Tyrion asserts. “You don’t think it’s a bit hypocritical, to judge me so harshly for bending the rules?”

She gapes at him. “Cheating at cyvasse and counting cards are entirely different!”

“Didn’t you just say how I cheated at cards a moment ago?”

She stares at him in silence, thinking. But he’s right; she’s talked her way into this. “Yes,” She admits, and he laughs triumphantly.

“We’ll have to play in the Red Keep. I believe her Grace cheats as well, but I haven’t caught her yet. Perhaps if we were watching together..?” He questions.

Sansa laughs. “You want me to help you catch the Queen cheat at cards?”

“Oh, come on,” He says, “Wouldn’t that be a tale to tell?”

“It would,” She replies, “But I’m not sure she’ll have the time anyway, if what I’ve heard is true.”

“Perhaps not.” He agrees, kicking at a bit of charred wood that’s tumbled from the fire.

It’s too dark to see him properly now, with the fire dying, but Sansa thinks she can imagine what he looks like now. That mind of his is whirring, no doubt, and he’s likely staring a hole into the grass with the intensity of his thoughts. She stops herself from watching him after a moment, realizing that he’s likely sensed her eyes on him again, and turns her eyes to the sky, where the dark clouds shadow across the full moon.

“I think I’m going to get some sleep.” She says, standing. “Goodnight, my lord.”

He lifts his cup to her words. “Goodnight, my lady.”

\--

A violent, screaming wind wakes her in the night, gusting through her tent and bringing piles of snow with it.

She was right about the snowstorm. It’s here.

She stumbles to her feet, shaking off the snow and wrapping herself in the furs she’d slept under. The tent she’s in is feebly withstanding the wind so far, but she doubts it’ll last much longer. Already, the snow is piling, pushing against the other side.

She grabs her riding boots and shoves them on before pushing outside, arm covering her face.

The wind is even worse here, and she’s nearly knocked to the ground. The snow isn’t soft here, it’s hard, nearly ice, pricking into her face so surely she thinks she has a dozen holes in it. Still, she manages to keep her footing, and strains to see through the darkness and chaos.

The moon is full and heavy above them, offering the only light; the fires were long ago blown out. The men she can make out are yelling and running around, trying to stop the tents from flying away. She sees Talton rush past her, settling a runaway horse that’s dragging a limb behind it.

She makes her way toward him, pushing against the harsh gusts of air. “ _Talton_!” She screams.

Somehow he heard her above the winds and turned, grabbing her arm and helping her walk. “Get up!” He told her, pushing her towards the horse and helping her mount. He grabbed the saddle and settled behind her, spurring the horse to move.

They don’t ride for long in the blistering wind; soon Sansa can make out the outline of a small house in the white. He guides the horse to the door and dismounts, helping her down. She nearly falls again, the snow and ice pushing her to the ground. Talton kicks the door open and leads her inside. “Help her, come on!” He says, helping her sit. “She’s freezing, so hurry up about it. I’m going to get the horses together, I’ll be back soon.”

She doesn’t know who drags her to the fire, rubbing her hands between theirs, wrapping her furs. She thinks someone’s talking, but she can’t tell over the sound of her own teeth, chattering incessantly. And she’s cold, so _cold_ , she’s freezing, maybe already frozen, becoming the ice, the winter the Starks are always famed to be. That must be it, she thinks as she starts to numb, stop feeling. She’s turning to ice.

-

Bronn is the one who drags Tyrion up, out of the tent and into the freezing snowstorm. He takes him to an abandoned hut half a mile out from camp. Tyrion curses as Bronn shoves him inside, falling to the ground.

Bronn dusts himself off, shaking the snow to the ground. “Thank you, Bronn, for saving my life. I’m not dead because of you. I’ll give you anything now, what would you like, Bronn?”

Tyrion glares, opens his mouth to respond. Bronn holds up a finger. “ _Anything_ , Bronn, of course, just name it!” He continues, offering a hand to the man on the floor. “Lord Tyrion, you flatter me! I’d like the hand of the pretty Tyrell girl, if you please.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Yes, Bronn, I’ll have a word about getting you a wife. Now, _where_ the hell is everyone?”

“Dunno.  Most of them are freezing to death, I expect. I think I saw a few of the men heading west. Talton should be coming here any moment, assuming he managed to find Lady Sansa before she froze.” Bronn walks over to the small fireplace, poking at the contents with a poker leant against it.

“You saw Talton?”

“Yes, as I said, trying to catch the horses. And he’s looking for your wife, so stop thinking you’re going to go try to find her. You’d die trying, so _sit_ ,”  Bronn shoves him down next to the small fire he’s started, “And get yourself warm before your balls freeze off.”

They sit, waiting, for far longer than Tyrion would like. The fire is weak, barely warming the space in front of it, yet alone the room. It’s been fifteen minutes, at least, and he’s starting to worry. “What if he couldn’t find her? What if she’s…” He bites his cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Bronn, what if she’s...”

“I’m sure she’s fine! You have met Talton, haven’t you? That man would kill himself for that girl. He’ll find her.”

Tyrion shakes his head and grabs the furs littering the ground. “No. He would be here by now. I’m going to find her.”

Bronn grabs his shoulder, shoving him back. “Oh, no you’re not! I’m not letting you die, not with the money you owe me!”

“Let go of me, I have to go—”

The door bangs open then, cold air rushing through, and Talton stumbles in, holding Sansa up.

Talton says something about the horses and releases her, leaving her to Tyrion. He catches her before she falls to the ground, guiding her to sit. She blinks at him, but he doesn’t think she’s really seeing. Her eyes are like glass. “Easy, easy,” He says, bringing her to the fire. “Here, stay still.” He throws the furs he still has in hand around her shoulders and grabs her hands. They’re freezing.

His brow wrinkles. “She’s so cold.” He whispers.

“Warm her up then, smartass!” Bronn says, throwing furs over his shoulders. “Take the wet clothes off, keep her by the fire. I need to make sure Talton doesn’t manage to lose the only horses we have.”

Tyrion rubs her hands between his, blowing on them and pushing her closer to the fire. “Come on, Sansa, stay awake, please.” He places a hand on her face and smooths a thumb over her temple. “Stay with me.”

But her eyes are closed now, and her teeth have stopped their chattering. “No, no!” He shakes her. “Wake up!”

-

Tyrion wakes her, and all she can think is how much she wishes he hasn’t. “No,” She says hoarsely, eyes still closed. “let me sleep.”

“You can’t,” Tyrion says. “You could die. Stay with me, please. I swear, I’ll never ask anything of you again.”

She doesn’t know how, but a chuckle escapes her. “I somehow doubt that.”

He’s rubbing her arms, up and down, clutching the furs to her. “No, I promise, just stay awake. I’ll never bother you again. I’ll leave you to peace.”

She’s starting to wake more fully now, and she realizes that she really can’t feel anything. Most of her body, it’s numb. She’s not even cold.  

That’s bad.

“I can’t feel anything.” She tells him and she nearly whimpers. “Tyrion, I can’t feel anything.”

His expression changes, and he swallows. “Of course. Your clothes, they must still be wet.” He lies her head back, moving it from his chest to the ground. “Can I..” He looks down at her, pain written in his face. “Sansa, I have to get them off. Or you’ll die.”

It’s not difficult to sense his hesitation. But her modesty isn’t worth her life, or his comfort. “Just do it, Tyrion.”

His head jerks, once, in a gesture of assent, and carefully begins to strip her.

She nearly drifts off again in the process, head falling to her chest only to be gently shaken again by Tyrion. He dries her with furs once he’s finished, then wraps her in them and places her closer to the now-dying fire.

She watches him lay her clothes out, poke at the fire for a while before giving up and sitting beside her, rubbing his hands together.

“Better?” He asks, not looking at her.

She makes a noise of agreement, wrapping her furs tighter. “Do you think I could sleep now?”

He looks as if he’s going to say yes, but then he looks at the fire again, which is nothing more than glowing embers now. “It will get much colder soon, and the storm isn’t over. I don’t think you should.”

She sighs in frustration. “Well, we’ll _both_ freeze to death at this rate.” She scoots closer to him. “We should share our heat. It’s the best option we have.” She risks a look at him, his face hard to make out in the darkness.

His face is contorted in shock as he looks at her, but after a few moments he nods. “Yes, of course. Share our heat.”

“You’ll need to—” She clears her throat, looking away. “You’ll need to take off the outer layers.”

He nods and complies, then hesitantly closes much of the distance between them. She braces herself and untangles herself from the furs, letting him slip in.

He faces away from her, and they don’t touch, but he’s close enough that she can hear his breath, nearly feel his heart beating.

So, despite his advice, the sound lulls her to sleep.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talton and Bronn must've got lost there at the end. Also, we love convenient snowstorms and dying fires. :)))) Maybe our babes aren't as hopeless as we thought?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's finally some sexual tension in this chapter. I have really made this a slow burn, wow. The slowness was actually hurting ME a little. But yeah, standard warning, M rating is starting now(ish). 
> 
> If you have any advice on how I'm doing with the smut stuff (or tension, or, honestly, anything), feel free to let me know. I've never done this before, so critique away.

For a moment when Tyrion wakes, he thinks he’s in a whorehouse.

He must be, of course—there are soft, round teats pressed against his side, hair pillowing in his neck, a long, slim leg thrown over his thigh and pressing against him. In what world could this happen but the fantasy he pays for?

The thigh shifts against him and he groans aloud, nearly squirming. He hasn’t been this hard in _ages_.

And that’s when he remembers.

His eyes fly open and he looks down at Sansa, though he can’t make much out, as her hair is _everywhere_.

The furs are still wrapped securely around the pair, though the fire is roaring in the hearth, so someone has clearly been inside and seen them. He prays to all the gods he can think of it wasn’t Talton—though, he suspects if Talton had seen them he’d already be a eunuch.

Sansa’s cold nose rubs against his neck and he shudders involuntarily. She must’ve been cold in the night, so she’d unknowingly gravitated towards the warm body close by. He doesn’t blame the girl; he’s fairly certain she’d almost frozen to death the night before. Her lips had been purple, her face a white pallor. 

So yes, of course she’d found his body in the night, which is fine by him. He’s a more than willing heat source for someone as lovely as his young wife. Though he has to admit, the situation is testing his restraint; she’s growing restless now, the sun shining outside as it is, growing ready to wake, and even the slightest movement pushes her against his cock.

He isn’t sure whether he should try to extricate himself from her grasp, so as not to completely humiliate himself when she wakes, or to pretend to be asleep, so _she_ won’t be humiliated by him knowing that she’d held him in the night. The ideal situation would be him moving now without waking her, but she’s so thoroughly intertwined with him and the furs he doubts it’s possible.

It’s a conundrum, one that he takes too long to think about (he’s strategized for battles in less time, and he’s confident that was an easier task). He’s finally decided that he’ll move her leg as fast as he can to someplace that’s _not_ his groin when he feels her awake. He nearly curses. He was too late.

She starts, tensing for a second and relaxing again. Then, damn her, she shifts her thigh again, as if not quite recognizing what’s pressing against her. But she must, because she quickly withdraws her leg from him and tries to carefully disentangle herself from him.

He forgets during this process that in this scenario he’s supposed to be pretending to be asleep, so it’s startling when she finally manages to sit up, furs clutched to her chest, and he’s thinking about how cold the spot she left is, not about sleeping, and her eyes meet his.

She makes a high-pitched noise of surprise so unlike anything he’s ever heard come out of her mouth that he forgets the apologies he’s supposed to be scrambling together and just stares at her.

She stares back, blue eyes wide with an emotion he doesn’t know how to identify. Her mouth falls open and closed, wordlessly, as if she’s lost the ability to speak. He has too.

The fire pops, loudly, and she jumps. It’s enough to break whatever strange, blanketed silence had fallen between them, and they both start speaking at the same time.

“I’m so sorry, my lady—”

“That was terribly improper of me—”

They both quiet again. Sansa’s blushing, looking away, and Tyrion is fairly certain his face is just as red.

  _The famed wicked Imp, cheeks tinting like a child,_ He thinks to himself. But, to be fair, the most beautiful woman in Westeros was pressed against him seconds before, so he thinks he gets a pass.

Sansa clears her throat. “So I’ll just—” She gestures to her clothes, still spread on the floor, and he jolts.

“Uh- yes, yes. Of course.”

-

They dress in silence, backs turned to each other as Sansa reflects on whatever the _hell_ just happened.

She’d slept so well the night before. Better than she has in years, since she was a child in Winterfell. She was warm, safe—when she woke there were a few seconds of the pure bliss that comes with sleeping well and being happy to wake.

She wasn’t really aware of her surroundings for a second and when she felt something pressing into her thigh she’d instinctively pushed against it to feel out what it was.

That was when it had come back to her—the night before, the stripping, the heat Tyrion’s body had given off under the furs. From the way she’s positioned, she’d clearly been the one to reach for him in the night, seeking warmth in the cold. It’s no wonder he’d hardened against her, even asleep, with how snugly her leg was pressed between his.

She’d resolved to move away from him as slowly as she could, hoping he wouldn’t wake.

She had thought she had succeeded, too, for a moment—he hadn’t moved—but when she managed to get in a sitting position those green eyes were open to meet hers, and she had squealed in surprise.

And then they just _stared_ at each other, and she was sure he was thinking how unladylike and unseemly she had acted, curling around him like a cat, pressing against him in the night. Her breasts were _bare_ , for gods’ sakes. She had the stray thought that it’s lucky that her smallclothes remained, or the situation would be even more uncomfortable; she didn’t know if she could stand _this_ much awkwardness.

A noise from the fire had brought her back to reality and she had started to apologize, and so had he, and she had realized that he was just as embarrassed as she was. She looked away from him, face burning, hoping he would speak first.

But he didn’t—she thinks he was just as shocked as she was—and so she had moved to get dressed and hoped he would do the same.

She’s pretty sure the silence means they’ve come to an unspoken agreement not to speak of it.

They’re both dressed and collecting the furs when Bronn shoves the door open, bringing a large amount of snow with him. He stops inside, shaking off before shutting the door behind him. “Good morning, you two. Sleep well?” He asks, grinning.

Tyrion glances to her (her cheeks are burning _again_ ) and glares at Bronn.

“You looked snug enough this morning,” Bronn comments, cheerily ignoring Tyrion’s death stare as he goes over to the fire and tends to it.

Tyrion opts to ignore the prodding, which Sansa feels is wise, having gotten used to Bronn over the past few days. “Yes, I slept quite well, thank you. Care to fill us in on the whereabouts of Ser Talton and the rest of the men?”

Bronn shakes snow into the fire. It hisses, steam rising above it. “There’s a little cave behind the barn outside. Apparently one of the men led the rest there last night; didn’t see this place. Talton and I went that way to get some wood for the fire, but the wind got so bad we had to stay the night. He sent me to get you. Good thing, I suppose, else I doubt you’d still be breathing.” He says, nodding to Tyrion.

“Where are they now?” Tyrion queries.

“Salvaging what’s left of the camp. There’s not much, so we’ll have to buy supplies when we reach the next town.”

“And the horses?”

“We only lost two. Since we aren’t bringing the wagons, every man still has one.”

Tyrion lets out a sigh of relief. He’d thought they’d be much worse off. “Good.”

“Aye. It’s not too bad. Now, if you two are ready?” He motions to the door.

-

Sansa doesn’t know what she had expected when they started to ride again, but she certainly hadn’t thought Tyrion would pull his horse right along side her and start complaining about the lack of wine as if nothing had happened between them.

She’d thought for sure there’d be at least some measure of nervousness between them. Fortunately, there seems to be none, and they chat amiably throughout the day.

She supposes this is probably the best way to handle the situation. It wasn’t as if it could’ve been avoided. He had had to take her clothes off the night before, anyway, and she thinks that would’ve been more awkward than what happened this morning if she had been fully lucid. And it had logically made sense to share their body heat; there was no wood left for the fire, she was probably only a few degrees from freezing to death, and it would’ve been to cold apart. People did that in winter all the time; she’d been taught from a young age that it was necessary for survival when stranded in the cold.

And yes, she had wrapped up around him, but it was _cold_. In the light of day, thinking about it, she doubts Tyrion thought much of it. Besides the obvious issue of her being essentially nude and pressed against him. That bit was hard to rationalize, despite the logic of how it came to be. But they’re not going to talk about that, so it’s fine.

-

Tyrion is utterly exhausted by the time they make it to the inn. It’s dark by then, and all the men and horses are tired and ready to sleep.

That morning, he’d been so put out by Bronn’s poking and jokes about the night before that he’d resolved to spend the day speaking with Sansa. Which had been fine, once he’d finally built up the courage to approach her. She had followed his lead, chatting with him as if nothing had happened, and he had relaxed. They were fine.

Still, as he lays on the straw mattress, willing himself to sleep, she plagues his mind.

He’s become a much more respectable man since he’d come into Daenerys’ employ, but he was still a _man_. And he was trying, he was, but Sansa was beautiful and always around. Until now he’d managed to ignore the encroaching lust out of respect for her, but that was before. Before he’d clutched her warm body to his. Before he had felt her soft breasts against him, her leg between his, her breath brushing his neck.

She’s such a _woman_. And gods, how he misses women. The drinking had been hell to slow, it’s true, but it was nothing compared to the vice of women warming his bed at night. Sansa had helped fill the loneliness their absence had caused with something far greater, it’s true—he’d take their quiet friendship over an endless supply of whores. Unfortunately, it had not quelled his other inclinations.

It's this issue that keeps him awake well into the night, despite his exhaustion. He just can’t stop _thinking_ about her. About that morning. He’d really wanted to avoid this, because he _respects_ Sansa, really, he does, and this definitely makes him a terrible person. But, he thinks as he pulls up his nightshirt and takes himself in hand, better to do this now than to fall off his horse tomorrow.

-

The next week is uneventful. They make good time and the weather starts to warm as they get further south, so there aren’t any more unexpected snow storms. Or snow at all, really. Sansa and he continue their odd friendship, conversing during the day and sometimes late into the night.

He thinks Bronn is even taking a liking to her; he remarks on more than one occasion how he wishes there were more smart women like her around. Tyrion replies that it’s perhaps not a shortage of intelligent women, but that Bronn isn’t suitable company for such women.

Bronn cuffs him in the arm for that. “If _you_ can keep the company of Sansa fucking Stark, I should be able to get the company of the bloody queen.” 

Tyrion had always known, of course, that Sansa inspired a loyalty in the Northerners. It’s been clear ever since the day he got off the ship that sailed from Dragonstone. The men who follow her are steadfast, honorable, incorruptible. He’d always thought that it was because she was a Stark; the Northerners are, after all, a close bunch, reluctant to trusting outsiders.

He still thinks that assessment wasn’t entirely inaccurate; the Starks are of the North, and the North follows them, always. But the loyalty Sansa inspires goes beyond that.

He notices it while they travel. Sansa makes an effort to ask after the men, to make sure they have money to eat, to stock on supplies, when they reach the small towns they stay in. She checks on the one who catches ill, bringing water and food. She calls each man by name. Tyrion doesn’t think even Talton does that.

They follow Sansa, protect Sansa, because of the love she inspires. He was a fool not to notice before. They’re loyal because _she’s_ loyal, because she cares, because they _know_ she cares.

He hadn’t paid enough attention before, in Winterfell when she was helping Jon run the place, but he’s sure she’d done the same there. It makes sense that these men hang on her every word, jump to follow her commands. She’s good at leading. _Really_ good.

It’s a shame, he thinks, that she can’t lead as she should at Winterfell. She was bred to it, raised to it, molded to it. She’d once told him the only thing stopping her were the ghosts haunting its halls… he hopes, despite his own odd, selfish demons whispering otherwise, that she does marry again. That she finds someone brave, strong, and kind. Someone smart enough to keep up with her. Someone worthy. She shouldn’t have to give up her life’s calling (because the more he thinks about it, the more he’s certain, she is _meant_ to rule) because of her past. She should get to be the great Lady of a great house.

They’ve travelled for two weeks when he brings it up. They’re eating side-by-side by the fire, as has grown to be their custom. A few other men, including Bronn, sit on the other side, but they’re loud enough they probably couldn’t hear Tyrion yell.

“Do you think you’ll marry again, Lady Stark?” He asks in a moment of silence, after he’s had enough wine.

She pauses, cup halfway to her mouth. She doesn’t answer right away, looking at the sky. When she does, it’s quiet. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” He says before he can stop himself. “You’re young. You could start a family, be the Lady of a great house.”

She looks at him, her eyes sad. “I’m not foolish enough to believe all men are monsters. And I’d like a family. But marriage can be a prison. I’d want to know the man, truly know him before I married him. And it’s far too easy for suitors to hide their true nature for me to believe I could actually understand them before giving my hand.”

It’s a good answer. From a woman who had to gain the wisdom behind it the worst way one could. He doesn’t really want to say the next words that escape his mouth, but he still does. “If you do find someone you like, I could help.” She looks at him oddly, and he realizes how strange he must sound. “I mean,” He clarifies, “I have ways of obtaining information. If you wanted to know how a man treated his men, his family, his staff, I could find out for you.”

“Thank you,” She says, slowly. “I doubt I’ll take your offer, but you have my gratitude nonetheless.”

It’s a short while later, after they’ve fallen out of a conversation about the Kingdom’s finances and there’s a silence once again, that Sansa speaks up. “Do you have any idea who you’ll marry?”

“No idea.” He answers honestly.

“Really? None? You haven’t even asked after anyone?” She asks, looking almost amused.

He shrugs. “I’ve looked through a list of the eligible ladies, but I haven’t actually sent any ravens. To be quite honest, their descriptions weren’t quite what I was looking for.”

“Oh? What are you looking for?”

“Someone…” He hesitates, loathe to reveal his innermost thoughts, even to her. He doesn’t usually like to give away personal thoughts; they could always be used against him. Always have, in the past. _This is Sansa_ , he reminds himself. And there’s nothing she could do with the information even if she wanted to. “Someone kind and loyal. Who will keep me company on long nights. Who can help me run the Westerlands, who doesn’t mind working hard. I suppose someone young, as I’ll be needing heirs soon.” He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “Apparently they say I’m getting old.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Who’s ‘they’?”

He sips his wine. “Mainly Daenerys. I write to ask after her health and ask about visiting for a tourney, and she writes back ‘you’re not getting any younger, Tyrion’, and ‘you’re the last Lannister, Tyrion’, and ‘if you don’t have children soon I’m giving Casterly Rock to Bronn, Tyrion.’”

She can’t help but laugh at his imitation of the Queen. “Did she really?”

“Well,” Tyrion cedes, “I’ll admit, it’s mainly about how I’m the last Lannister. Though she did threaten to give Casterly Rock to Bronn once, during the war. Though at the time I believe she was implying that she’d have me killed for charging the Night King.”

“It wasn’t your best decision.” Sansa remarks, pointedly looking at the scar on his forearm.

“No,” Tyrion agrees. “That was best left to your sister.”

“Clearly.” Sansa raises a brow. “In any case, the Queen didn’t kill you, so you do have that to be thankful for.”

“She didn’t,” Tyrion says, raising his cup towards her. “To the Dragon Queen, for allowing me to live.”

“To the Dragon Queen.” She toasts.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know the new episode is coming out tomorrow night, and I know they're setting up Dany as the Mad Queen or whatever and D&D are probably going to make her kill children or something. But fuck that, I love her and in this story Dany is awesome and not batshit crazy. Still intense, but awesome. 
> 
> So yeah, just know that from here on out, in this story I literally don't care what happens in the rest of the season. For my intents and purposes, the war with the dead was the main war and it lasted a hot minute (like, at least a year, not a single night), and Tyrion fought in it and he and Dany and Jon became really close. Because that's what I wanted to happen. 
> 
> Also please excuse my time jumps, but there's honestly only so many interesting things that can happen when you're traveling. Kidnapping, check. Snowstorm, check. Long talks by the campfire, check. So hopefully we'll move into the King's Landing part of the story soon and these babes can finally get their shit together and not get a divorce.
> 
> **Edit after Battle of King's Landing: 
> 
> LITERALLY KILLED CHILDREN. I CALLED THIS SHIT. I CALLED IT. FUCK YOU D&D
> 
> Also pissed about Jaime's death (why did they bother with like 3 seasons of character development to kill him off like this) but Tyrion isn't dead (yet)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve made remarkably good time.
> 
> They’ve long since passed the Twins; they’re nearly to Harrenhall, and only 3 days from King’s Landing, when Bronn once again begins to needle Tyrion about Sansa.
> 
> “Don’t you think you should make a move?” He says, chewing on a piece of straw. “You only have a few days before there’s no turning back. She’s legally bound to you now. I doubt you’ll manage to convince her to marry you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm super mad about this season (if you'd like reasons, see my tumblr lotionalt-writeherman, I explain it pretty nicely), and I have a very strong, sad feeling Dany is going to kill Tyrion. This sucks, but here. Have an update. The babies are starting to figure things out.

They’ve made remarkably good time.

They’ve long since passed the Twins; they’re nearly to Harrenhall, and only 3 days from King’s Landing, when Bronn once again begins to needle Tyrion about Sansa.

“Don’t you think you should make a move?” He says, chewing on a piece of straw. “You only have a few days before there’s no turning back. She’s legally bound to you now. I doubt you’ll manage to convince her to marry you _again_.”

Tyrion sighs. “We’ve discussed this. There’s no reason for me to make –” his nose scrunches, “--a _move,_ we both want this farce of a marriage annulled so we can move on with our lives.”

Bronn snorts. “I’ve heard a lot of horseshit in my life, but that might be the stupidest.”

“Call it what you will.” Tyrion answers, rolling his eyes.  

“The way I see it, you want to fuck her--”

“ _Bronn_!” Tyrion hisses, glancing around to see if any of the men are in earshot. “Must you do this _now_?”

“—and not only do you want to fuck her,” Bronn continues, ignoring Tyrion’s concern, “You _like_ her. You want to stay married to her, don’t you?”

“I- no!” Tyrion sputters, glaring at him. “I have nothing but respect for Lady Sansa.”

“You can respect a woman and still want to fuck her.” Bronn reasons, directing his horse closer to Tyrion’s and leaning in, choosing _that_ moment to be discrete. “She likes you too, you know.”

Tyrion glances to the front of their party, where Sansa’s red hair swings to her horse’s footsteps. Bronn is being ridiculous. Even if he wanted Lady Sansa—be it for matters of the flesh or otherwise—she certainly doesn’t want him. He knows who he is, knows how people see him. He’d have to be a fool _not_ to know.

Sansa may value his words, his mind, but she wants their marriage annulled. He has no illusions about that; he may be the Lord of Casterly Rock, but he’s no prize. She, on the other hand, could have any man in Westeros.

He won’t lie to himself: he _would_ marry Sansa. Or stay married to her. She’s young, beautiful, intelligent, and he’s already seen how well she can run a keep. And he has a… fondness, for her. He has to admit, if he were younger, more handsome, _taller_ —yes, he thinks he would try to persuade her to stay with him. To come to Casterly Rock with him.

 But he’s not. His face is split down the middle, he’s ten years too old for her, and he’s a dwarf. Besides, Sansa Stark doesn’t want to marry him, or anyone.

He meets Bronn’s eyes. “Friendship isn’t the same as marriage.”

“Maybe not,” The other man says, twisting his piece of straw, “but I’ve heard it’s a start.”

-

Bronn’s words won’t leave his mind.

It’s quite annoying, really—he talks to Sansa quite a lot, and it’s gotten to the point where his mind drifts away in the middle of a conversation

_\--her sprawled across his bed at Casterly Rock, bright red hair pillowing on white sheets, a sleepy sigh escaping swollen lips—_

and it’s not ideal, _really_ not ideal to completely zone out completely in a conversation about the structure of the small council with impossible thoughts of

_-a bouncing baby girl with blonde hair and big, blue Tully eyes staring at him from her rightful place in Sansa’s lap-_

in the middle of it.

He knows, logically, that these fantasies are far-fetched, impossible. He had known that before, too. But he hadn’t had any hope then, not even a morsel, but then Bronn had implied that there was a chance ( _there’s not),_ and suddenly the great mind of Tyrion Lannister can’t piece together a coherent conversation with a certain red-head.

It’s absurd.

So two days after their conversation, a day until they reach King’s Landing, Tyrion walks into Bronn’s tent and takes a seat.

Bronn glances up from his novel (Tyrion’s a bit surprised at that detail—he hadn’t known Bronn _could_ read). “Something I could help you with, milord?”

“Yes, em—” Tyrion clears his throat, trying to think of the least absurd way to word his query. “You remember when we spoke of my marriage to Lady Stark the other day.”

“I do.” Bronn replies, completely unhelpfully.

“And when you were talking about where the two of us stand, in our opinions of one another?”

“Yes.”

He looks at him pleadingly. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific, milord.” Bronn licks his finger, then flips to the next page in his book.

Tyrion groans. “Come on, Bronn, just—” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do you think she likes me?”

 “I had a similar conversation with my brother once,” The other man grins. “We were twelve.”

Tyrion stands, turning to leave. “Fine, be difficult, I’ll just be on my way.”

“No, wait!” Bronn calls after him. “Come back.”

Tyrion does reluctantly, sitting down. “Are you going to make fun of me, or are you going to help me?”

“Gods, I’ll help you. If you don't fuck _someone_ soon, you’ll explode of frustration and won’t be able to give me my castle.”

Tyrion doesn’t give a response, choosing to wait instead.

Bronn sighs, leaning forward. “Your Lady does like you.”

“How do you know?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve seen enough women with that look. Her cheeks get all red, sometimes she breathes a little faster. You can see it in the eyes, too.”

Tyrion scoffs. “That’s hardly proof that she… cares for me.”

“The only other person she’s spoken to for three weeks has been Talton. And she _has_ to talk to him, poor thing.”

“If she did, why wouldn’t she mention it?” Tyrion reasons. “She’s a Stark, she’s beautiful, young. She knows she could have me if she wanted me.”

Bronn shakes his head. “Women are strange creatures, Tyrion. She might not even _know_ she wants you.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes and stands. “Well, you’ve been completely unhelpful. Thanks for your time anyway, I suppose.”

As he exits, Bronn calls behind him: “If you do end up married, you have to name one of your little wretches after me!”

-

Tyrion’s been acting… strange.

He’s always been prone to occasionally drifting away during conversations, but not normally with her. He’s joked before that it’s because she’s “the only other person with a brain on the continent,” and, considering who he speaks to on a regular basis, she’s not inclined to disagree with that assessment.

But lately he’s started to just _stare_ at her mid-conversation; when he starts talking again, it’s often off topic or irrelevant.

They’re discussing Jon and Dany’s future (again) after they eat, a day out from King’s Landing the next time she notices it.

“A marriage, of course, would be ideal for the two, but Winterfell is an obstacle. I worry that Jon’s not going to her because he doesn’t want me to have to—” She stops in the middle of her sentence, noticing Tyrion’s eyes glazing over. He’s not even making eye contact with her, he’s looking at her mouth, and she wipes at it, frustrated. “Do I have something in my teeth?”

He snaps out of whatever stupor he’s in, surprised. “I—no, my lady. I’m sorry, I was just—”

“Completely stepping away from the conversation again, yes, I know.” She knows her voice is getting higher, that she probably sounds child-like, but _fuck_ it he’s been acting this way for three days, and they talk too often for her to ignore it any longer. “Will you tell me what’s been bothering you? Or would you like to pretend it’s nothing and keep letting me have one-sided conversations with the air?”

He looks away from her, guilt flashing in his face, but doesn’t reply.

She stands, grabbing her water skin. “Alright. Come find me when you learn how to speak again.”

She leaves him then, walking to Talton’s fire. She’d needed to speak with him anyway, about the logistics of boarding all their men in the capital.

She’s restless that night, unable to sleep with her mind whirring with all the worst possible scenarios for their interactions.

Maybe he’s tired of her, and no longer enjoys her company. She knows he’s bawdier with Bronn, more open, more vulgar. He doesn’t do that in her presence, never has. Maybe he misses that, is tired of having to oblige the Lady of Winterfell every night at dinner. Maybe he wants to tell her he doesn’t really want her staying in the Tower of the Hand anymore, but he doesn’t want to offend her.

These theories seem a bit excessive, even in the dark of night. He usually approached _her_ when they made camp. And he still had plenty of time with Bronn during the day, even in the evenings. He’d gone in Bronn’s tent before dinner, she thinks. And even if he was annoyed with her, she reasons, her rooms in the Tower can be far from his.

Besides, this is absurd. She shouldn’t be so prone to such insecurities. She’s intelligent and a good conversationalist. She was raised to be. His problem couldn’t be with her.

But then, why did he only behave so oddly when speaking to _her_? She’d seen him hold lengthy conversations with Bronn, with the men, all without forgetting that he was in said conversation.

So it must be a problem with her. But she’s definitely done nothing to anger him; nothing has even _happened_ in weeks. She hasn’t said anything he could take offense to; she’s long learned how to avoid offending those she speaks to, and he doesn’t take offense to much of anything, anyway.

She stays up for hours, tossing and turning, analyzing their interactions in the last week.

It’s far too close to dawn when she finds the right moment.

He hadn’t been staring at her because she had something in her teeth. He’d been staring at her _lips_.

-

He fucked up.

He knew that, of course, the moment Sansa had finally snapped, stopped talking mid-sentence, and accused him of ignoring her.

He _had_ been, but it wasn’t intentional, and it certainly was through no fault of her own. As always, he had been interested in the conversation (she brought up interesting perspectives, factoring in details about Jon’s position he hadn’t considered), but had been lost once more to thoughts of his own marriage, of who he would have to marry and breed and talk to for hours and hours every day, and then, without his notice, Sansa was angry. Her voice hadn’t raised in volume at all, had stayed calm, but there was a deadly stillness in it that frightened him a bit.

He’d been so caught off-guard by her words that he didn’t even have an explanation. She had tried to ask what he was doing, but he didn’t have time to come up with a lie she wouldn’t see through, so he had remained silent. A mistake.

He definitely deserved her departure, but it doesn’t make it sting any less.

He goes to Bronn’s side when she walks away, ignoring his questions and knowing looks and instead getting himself completely, thoroughly, _drunk_.

He doesn’t know how much he has. The rest of his skin, and at least one of the men’s, though it may have been two. He can’t remember.

He hasn’t been this drunk since his brother died; much like tonight, he’d consumed enough wine to make his stomach roll and his words nearly impossible to make out. He doesn’t even remember that night; he only knows what Podrick had told him the next day. Tonight will be similar, he thinks, taking another swig. Just like then, he’s drinking to forget.

Gods know what she thinks of him now. She definitely thinks he’s an idiot. Probably figured out that he’s a pervert. She’ll never talk to him again, that much is certain, not after the fool he’d made of himself then, and especially not with the fool he’s certain he’s made of himself tonight, playing rowdy drinking games with Bronn and the others, saying lecherous things he _knows_ Talton had heard—he’d seen his eyes flash—and that will certainly get back to her.

This was also a mistake, he reflects as he stumbles back to his tent. If she didn’t despise him after their talk earlier, by morning, after she’s had time to think, to listen to Talton’s account of the night, she definitely will.

He’s nearly to his tent, has just passed the fire Sansa had left him alone by, when he plows into one of the men.

The figure falls beneath him, and he atop it, though his head makes contact with the ground as well. He grunts, bringing a hand to his head, and looks up at the poor soul he’s just unwittingly attacked. “Ugh—m’sorry—” He begins, but he stops talking when he realizes who, precisely, he’s knocked over.

Just his luck. It’s Sansa.

She had on her dressing gown while she was walking, but It had fallen open at some point between his body bowling into hers and her unfortunate meeting with the ground. So now he’s on top of her, she’s in nothing her shift, and she’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind.

Which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate.

He thinks she’s going to be angry, perhaps shove him off of her and start screaming. She surprises him, though, by instead asking softly if he’s alright.

He finally gets his wits about him enough to scramble off of her then. “I- yes, m’lady, m’ head’s fine- m’sorry-“ He steadies himself the best he can and offers her his hand, hoping she won’t be able to tell how horrifically drunk he is.

Thank the gods, she slips her soft hand into his, but doesn’t rely on him too much to stand. She gives him a quizzical look. “What are you doing still awake? It’s only an hour or two until dawn.”

He stares at her, just _stares_ at her, wow, he’s been doing that a lot, and tries to figure out what to say. He decides fairly quickly that he’s in no state to attempt to fudge the truth. “T’ tell you the truth, I’ve gotten rather drunk,” He admits.

She tilts her head to the side, blue eyes still piercing his. “That wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“No,” He agrees, “it might’ve been the worst.”

She squeezes his hand then, and he belatedly realized he’d never let her hand go when he’d helped her up. “I think you should try to sleep, then. Maybe I can convince Talton to leave a couple hours late tomorrow.”

He doesn’t process the words, not really, still staring at their joined hands. “Mhm.”

“Tyrion.” She says, and he looks up at her. “Go to bed.”

He regretfully rubs his thumb over her knuckles, then lifts them to his lips and presses a kiss there. Because fuck it, why not, he wants to, it’s not terribly indecent, and sober Tyrion _certainly_ won’t do it.  He pats her hand one more time before he lets her go, making it the final few steps to his tent before he falls ungracefully on his bedroll and surrenders to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe, Sansa knows. Or she's starting the process of figuring it out. But yeah, anyway, drunk Tyrion is always fun. I'm sorry I didn't make him say more soul-revealing things (I know drunken confessions would've been a fun trope) but this man is totally blasted by the time he goes to sleep. 
> 
> (Bronn may be my favorite character on this show, and if you don't think he ships these two, I can write you an essay on why you're wrong.)
> 
> Don't know if you've noticed, but I've now set chapter count to 17. It may be more, may be less, but that's roughly what you're in for. Hopefully I'll post another update on Sunday night, if I get it written by then. I'm really trying to move this along, I promise.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several of the men laugh at the sight of him or make jokes they expect him to understand. He doesn’t. He remembers almost nothing from the night before, in fact; unfortunately, he still remembers making a fool of himself while talking to Sansa and likely losing her friendship, but everything else is a blur of sour wine and raucous laughter.
> 
> Though… he does vaguely remember crashing into a warm, solid body, hearing a soft cry of surprise.
> 
> He actually groans aloud at the memory, ignoring the strange looks he’s receiving.
> 
> He’d done it again. He’d basically attacked Sansa, pissed as a tavern wench, and from what he remembers, he thinks he’d held her hand for a length of time entirely inappropriate for even a close friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, look at me. Bragging about posting two in a week, and I skipped last week's 
> 
> I'm sorry, y'all. I thought it was a good idea to take Calc 3 AND physics AND work and honestly? Pro tip: don't. Fuck math and also jobs. 
> 
> I also don't know about y'all, but I'm super straight up pretending season eight didn't happen. Canon is dumb.

 

Tyrion wakes the next morning with such a terrible hangover he’s sure he’s dying.

His head aches, his stomach rolls. On his first few attempts to stand, he’s so dizzy he falls back on his bedroll.

Oddly enough, though, he notes that it looks as though the sun has been out for several hours, despite Talton’s infuriating tendency to demand the entire camp leave at the crack of dawn every day. He makes his way to a cook fire and manages to find something to eat from one of the men, seating himself on the ground.

When he queries about their late start, he gets shrugs in return. "Lady Sansa wanted to wait until noon," One lad says, and Tyrion decides just to accept the silent blessing without further question. 

Several of the other men laugh at the sight of him or make jokes they expect him to understand. He doesn’t. He remembers almost nothing from the night before; unfortunately, he still remembers making a fool of himself while talking to Sansa and likely losing her friendship, but everything else is a blur of sour wine and raucous laughter.

Though… he does vaguely remember crashing into a warm, solid body, hearing a soft cry of surprise.

He groans aloud at the memory, ignoring the strange looks he’s receiving.

He’d done it again. He’d basically attacked Sansa, pissed as a tavern wench, and from what he remembers, he thinks he’d held her hand for an entirely inappropriate length of time. 

Maybe Bronn’s right. Maybe he _does_ need a good fuck.

He resolves to visit a whorehouse in King’s Landing. After all, it’s not as if such gossip would reliably travel back to Casterly Rock, and he’s not even sure his council cares.

He notes that their company is beginning to pack, readying to move. He stands slowly and stretches a bit, feeling his back pop and knees cry out. Gods, he’s getting old.

He really does have to find a wife. He’s numbering in the mid-thirties now, he thinks—he isn’t completely sure. It’s been a while since he celebrated a name day-- likely a few years. He’s well into middle age, even for a normal man, and he’s heard (mostly from his father, the bitter old fucker) that dwarves usually only make it to fifty.

On second thought, perhaps he doesn’t pity his hypothetical young future wife. Yes, she has to marry him, but it’ll only be fifteen years before she has the run of the Rock. It’s a high price to pay, but it’s still the wealthiest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. And- though he's partial- the most beautiful.

 _Maybe Sansa was telling the truth_ , he muses as he packs his things. Maybe he could get a _second_ daughter of a great house.

\--

The day passes more quickly than usual.

Sansa thinks it’s because they’re all thinking about the Red Keep; about warm feather beds, hot meals, _bathing_. Many of the men are thinking about a night between soft thighs; she hears several discuss the exotic brothels they plan to visit before they notice her presence and bashfully mutter apologies.

She chances a glance at Tyrion, wondering if he’s thinking of the same.

 _Of course he is,_ she reasons with herself. _All men have.. needs._

She knows men get some enjoyment from sex, that it doesn’t have to be what Ramsey took from her. She can’t imagine women collectively accepting such abuse, so every experience mustn’t be quite so violent. It’s impossible that _Tyrion_ would find pleasure in such cruelty, so there must be more to the act, _something_ else men enjoy in brothels. Something Tyrion enjoys.

She ignores the twist in her gut at the thought.  He’s not attached to anyone. He doesn’t have a wife to answer to. Why shouldn’t he visit a brothel?

 _Because I’m his wife,_ a treacherous part of her whispers.

 _In name only,_ logical Sansa replies. _Nothing else._

Except that’s not entirely true now. At least, she doesn’t _think_ it is. Because the more she reflects on their conversations in the past few days, the more convinced she is that he is, at the very least, _attracted_ to her. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, she supposes. She’s not vain, but she’s not entirely ignorant of what men say about her. They like her pale skin, her red lips, her slim figure. She doesn’t often get such comments to her face, but she hears the whispers. She’s beautiful, at least by these standards.

She wishes real beauty were so straightforward.

She doesn’t know why she’s so unsettled by the thought that Tyrion might have been thinking about kissing her. She’s no stranger to men’s heavy gazes chancing down, tongues darting out to wet hungry lips. She’s dealt with those ever since she was a girl in King’s Landing.

But Tyrion… when she realized, an ember heated low in her stomach, her face burning. She thinks that maybe—maybe she _wanted_ him to kiss her.

She shakes her head to herself, as if to clear the thought away. No, of course not. They’re friends, good friends, and things like kissing would only complicate feelings that were too complex to begin with. Besides, thinking about kissing her and actually doing it were completely different. And he hadn’t, so it didn’t matter. He was probably starting to get distracted because it’d been so long since he had… she can’t help it, but she knows her cheeks flush red at the thought, since he’d _attended_ to his _needs_.

She admits it to herself: the darkness in his gaze, the staring—she’d never seen the look in his eyes before. She’s only ever seen a… a fondness. Soft, innocent. She’d reveled in the quiet intimacy they could share in a look, in the bond they’d somehow forged in the weeks past.

 But she’d never seen _heat_ in his eyes. He had never caused a _burn_ to curl in her, lighting her stomach on fire, warming her skin, making her heart pound like nothing has in years.

A shout breaks her reverie, and she looks up to find the source, only to see immediately notice its cause.

King’s Landing.

-

They had, of course, smelled King’s Landing days ago. You could always tell when you were getting close, Tyrion always thought. The smell of shit, of death, of poverty, permeated the air around the city for leagues around it. And why shouldn’t it? There were half a million people crammed into those city gates. You were bound to notice.

There’s a sense of finality as they approach the gates.

The journey is over. The marriage will soon be annulled, and he and the Lady Stark will part ways, likely for the rest of their lives. He’s willing to allow himself a moment of sadness; he’s never had a friend quite like Sansa Stark. Then, he’s never known _anyone_ quite like Sansa Stark.

He can’t help but admire her as her red hair sways along her back in front of him. She cuts a fine figure, even from behind, even having been on the road with her for a month. He doesn’t think she could ever look anything but ; she could be sick, could be dying, and he thinks she’d probably still easily be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.

It’s unfair, really, to the rest of them. To him. Maybe if she weren’t so fucking _perfect_ , he’d dare to question the decision. To ask—to _beg_ her to keep the marriage, to stay with him a little longer.

But no, the one person he’s felt anything for in decades has to be out of his reach. Laughably so. Fate truly is a cruel mistress.

Their journey through the city grows louder as they make their way to its center, people lining up to see the Red Wolf and the Imp.

Sansa’s sitting up even straighter now, if possible, and she stares straight ahead. She cuts an impressive shape, but he thinks she’s nervous. These aren’t her people. Her people don’t crowd like this, aren’t so invasive, so prying.

His suspicions are confirmed when she flinches from a rose thrown into her lap. He guides his horse beside hers carefully.

“I think they like you,” He observes, not looking at her, focused on not killing any of the fifty children running among their horses’ legs.

“Perhaps they do,” She says. “I just wish they weren’t so _close_.”

Tyrion chuckles. “The people of King’s Landing are always close. They’re either trying to beat you with their bare hands or lift you above their heads. There’s no compromise there, I’m afraid.”

Nevertheless, he stays by her right side until they make their way to the Red Keep, blocking her from the crowd.

-

Sansa has met the Dragon Queen several times before, though it’s been a couple of years. She remembers her striking beauty, her sharp features, her silver hair, the wild, twinkling purple eyes.

Daenerys has changed little since Sansa last saw her, though she must admit the Iron Throne proved quite the upgrade.

Their party enters the throne room immediately upon their arrival; their presence was requested and none dared protest.

Her dragon, Drogon, is the first and most noticeable change in the room Sansa had known as a child; he’s even more massive than when she’d last seen him, somehow, curled behind and around the Throne, snout resting far past it, eyes closed and dozing. Most of the men have seen him before, she knows, at the Battle of Winterfell, but she still hears green Jacob gasp behind her at the sight.

If she hadn’t stroked his face herself, she thinks she might’ve done the same.

The party comes to a stop several feet from the Queen and wordlessly bends the knee in deference.

Daenerys, as always, soaks the moment in a bit longer than necessary (Sansa likes her, she really does, but the woman enjoys her power a tad too much sometimes), but then warmly bids them rise.

“Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion. It’s so very good to see you both. I trust you traveled well?”

“Well enough, your Grace.” Sansa answers before Tyrion can, not entirely eager to recount the story of her kidnapping.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” The Queen answers, smiling. “I know you are all exhausted from your journey, so I’ve taken the liberty of preparing chambers for all of your men. My Lord, your quarters in the Tower have been furnished, as have yours, Lady Sansa, in the Maidenvault.”

Tyrion beats her to it this time. “Your Grace, I wonder if Lady Stark could have chambers in the Tower? We have been discussing trade conditions lately, and I think it would be beneficial if we could continue them during our stay.

 _It's not entirely false,_ Sansa supposes. 

If Daenerys is surprised, she shows none in her face. “Of course, whatever you wish,” She rises. “I’m sure you don’t want to spend any more time in those clothes. We will speak in the morning, unless there is an urgent matter?”

When no one replies, she smiles and approaches the two. “Goodnight, then. Sleep well.” She squeezes Tyrion’s shoulder briefly, then takes her leave.  

-

As no chamber had been prepared in the Tower for Sansa, Tyrion leads her and some of the castle staff to a spacious room in the floor above his.

“I have some of my personal collection stored in here,” He says apologetically, running a hand across a full bookshelf. “Of course, my library is on the ground floor, near the kitchens. If you’d like something else.”

She nods her head silently, lips parted as her eyes skim the titles lining the shelves. “Thank you, my lord.”

He folds his hands in front of him. “Yes, of course. And you know where to find me, if you have need of me.”

“Yes.”

He turns to one of the maids, who is stripping the large bed in the center of the room. “This won’t take too long to tidy, will it?” He asks, worrying that she won’t get to sleep soon enough.

“No, milord.”

“And you’ll have a bath brought in?” He asks, thinking that perhaps he shouldn’t have insisted, that if she were in the Maidenvault she’d already be neck deep in a warm bath, washing away the grime of the day. She must be so tired.

“Tyrion,” Sansa stalls his thoughts, a gentle hand on his arm. “This is lovely. Thank you.”

He clears his throat. “You’re very welcome,” He turns to leave, but hesitates at the door, sneaking looks at the maids busily cleaning the room. “Goodnight, Sansa.”

“Goodnight, Tyrion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was sort of a filler, but we're so close to getting to the good stuff, oh my god. Hang in there, only a couple chapters left.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Daenerys begins, folding her hands on the table. “You two have come to get an annulment, correct?”
> 
> Sansa nods. “It was never official the first time, I’ve been informed. Both parties must personally petition the High Septon to legally dissolve the union.”
> 
> Daenerys’ brow furrows. “The High Septon?”
> 
> “Yes, your grace.”
> 
> The Queen sighs and leans back in her chair. “I’m sorry, but I think your stay may be longer than you anticipated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things: I know this update is super early. It's because my weekend will be ridiculously busy, this is already written, and I will forget to post if I don't just do it now, when I've just worked on it. Expect next update (probably) weekend after this one. 
> 
> Also, y'all in the comments are scaring me. I know I said good stuff, but y'all are more thirsty than I thought, oh my god.
> 
> Just a warning: I've never done smut before, so don't get your hopes up too high. I'll be doing research (read: reading porn) and do my best to deliver, but be careful not to overhype yourself because, again, I have no idea what I'm doing. 
> 
> (Seriously though, the reception for this is amazing and I love each of you commenters. You're the best.)

Talton had told her when she’d gone to ask to delay their departure about some of Tyrion’s drunken activities. The knight did _not_ like the Lord Lannister, and while he wasn’t quite disrespectful when he informed her of his opinions, she could tell he was reigning himself in.

“I’m sorry to hear Lord Lannister disrupted your night,” She had said politely after a minute of his criticism.

The old man’s face had been slightly reddened from his speech, and he had looked as though he was struggling to choose his words. “Lady Stark…” He had begun carefully.

She had arched a brow.

He huffed lightly. “It’s not that I think your Lord Lannister isn’t a good man. I don’t know him well enough to judge his character, not like you do. And I know I’m not your father, and I have no right to say this—but I worry that he isn’t… that he isn’t the right company for a Lady such as yourself.”

She’d thanked him, but informed him that it didn’t matter, as they were parting ways in the next week.

He’d looked skeptical.

Talton is overprotective. She appreciates that sometimes, really. She’d never really had such a figure in her life after her father died; Jon was protective but didn’t have the wisdom that comes with age to offer advice. Talton isn’t quite family, though, so he tends to speak his mind only when he feels particularly strongly.

She usually takes that advice to heart. He’s a good man who’s unfailingly loyal and usually, he's right. 

She doesn’t think he’s right this time.

She knows Tyrion’s reputation, of course. She’s heard for years of how he’s a filthy drunkard, a perverted whoremonger. She knows without a doubt that his drinking is (somewhat) to the point of manageable, that his days of whoring are (mostly?) behind him. Truth be told, these days, it’s really only his _mouth_ that ignores all polite decency.

Talton’s point was that it should bother her.

It doesn’t.

Lately, she finds she cares little for polite decency. It’s useful in social settings, in public, for diplomacy. But in private it only hides the truth.

As she falls asleep, she can’t help but think that she’s tired of hidden truths.

And that perhaps she doesn’t mind Tyrion Lannister’s mouth.

-

Sansa slept well that night. She doesn’t know who’d commissioned the mattress, but she thinks it’s the most comfortable she’s ever laid upon. It’s firmer than the one she has at Winterfell, but soft enough to make her sigh in pleasure the moment her worn limbs make contact.

She wakes more rested than she has in a month and is in high spirits when she and Tyrion break their fast together in the Tower. 

By the time they finally have audience with the Queen, it’s midday. Apparently the Queen takes a very hands-on approach to ruling, so she has little time in her day schedule. It’s a good problem to have, Sansa thinks. Rulers should know what’s going on in their kingdoms, should talk to their people. Perhaps more delegation could become useful once her reign is more established; Sansa is well-aware of the tediousness of grievance hearings.

They meet her in her solar, not the throne room, which Sansa, at least, appreciates. The Iron Throne changed Daenerys’ attitude when she sat it, somehow; made her less friend and more Queen. Sansa prefers the friend.

Daenerys immediately bids them to sit when they enter, waving her servants to pour wine, bring food; a courtesy she is certain Tyrion appreciates as much as she does, judging by the lack of subtlety with which he attacks his mutton.

“So,” Daenerys begins, folding her hands on the table. “You two have come to get an annulment, correct?”

Sansa nods. “It was never official the first time, I’ve been informed. Both parties must personally petition the High Septon to legally dissolve the union.”

Daenerys’ brow furrows. “The High Septon?”

“Yes, your grace.”

The Queen sighs and leans back in her chair. “I’m sorry, but I think your stay may be longer than you anticipated.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrion asks.

“The High Septon is at the Citadel. As far as I know, he won’t arrive in King’s Landing for a fortnight.”

\--

Tyrion knows, _knows_ that he should feel at the very least annoyed by the news that his return to Casterly Rock will be delayed. But all he feels is a tinge of relief. He tries to chase it away as soon as it comes, but he can’t even manage to convince himself. Yes, fine, he’s happy he’ll be married to Sansa Stark another two weeks. In his defense, any other man would be just as happy with this turn of events.

“I see.” Sansa is the first to speak, and he gets nothing from her tone.

Daenerys is quick to apologize. “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with the customs of the Seven—I had assumed you only needed to come to the Great Sept to complete the annulment. Did either of you have urgent business to attend to?”

Tyrion shakes his head.

“No,” Sansa replies. “It’s no inconvenience. Could we impose on your hospitality for the duration of our time here?”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need.”

There's a beat of silence before Daenerys looks to Sansa. “You said your journey went well?”

The red-head bites her lip, pointedly looking at her plate and avoiding his eyes. “I may have left out a few details.”

He scoffs lightly and the queen's eyes dart to him, then back to Sansa. “What sort of details?”

“There was a run-in with the only Frey my sister didn’t reach, apparently. They took me from the inn we were staying in and held me for a few days.”

Daenerys inhales sharply at that. “Were you hurt?”

“No, your grace.” Sansa assures her.

Tyrion can't help but scoff again, louder this time. “That’s not entirely true.”

Sansa glares at him, but he only quirks a brow, meeting her stare without yielding. She hums quietly, then turns back to the queen. “It was a scratch, nothing more.”

Daenerys doesn’t look completely convinced of this, probably because Tyrion looks so skeptical. He doesn’t care—Sansa has downplayed her interactions with shitty people long enough. She still talks to _him_ , for gods’ sakes, and only yesterday he’d been staring at her mouth like he wanted to _eat_ her.

(He’s stopped denying it. Bronn was right. He _definitely_ wants to fuck her, apparently obviously wants to fuck her, and he’s starting to get worried about Sansa’s lack of self respect. That doesn't mean he's unhappy she’s still talking to him, but still—a tad worried.)

“But you got away?” Daenerys guesses when Sansa doesn't offer further detail.

Sansa sighs. “No. They held me for ransom and Jon came.”

Tyrion wouldn’t say that Daenerys had been entirely _uninterested_ in the conversation, but the way that she perks up at Jon’s name makes her look her age in a way nothing else ever has. “Oh?”

Sansa has obviously noticed the change in her demeanor (to be fair, one would have to be blind not to) and makes a sound of acknowledgement. “Of course, he negotiated with the Frey man and executed him for kidnapping from the family of his liege lord.”

“Of course,” Daenerys says, leaning in, looking almost proud. “So… everything went well?”

Tyrion can’t suppress his grin, and it looks as though Sansa is having a hard time as well, her lips quirking up at the edges.

“It did. And Jon is quite well, your grace.”

The Targaryen queen doesn’t blush, Tyrion has _never_ seen her blush, but the way she looks to the side, ducking her head makes him think it’s the closest she’ll ever get. After a moment she clears her throat and straightens her back. “I’m very glad to hear it, of course.” She hesitates, rubbing a ring on her hand with the other thumb. “Does your brother intend to visit King’s Landing soon? We had written about official business with the Crown and the North and I had the impression he’d wanted to begin trade talks in person.”

The other woman shakes her head. “I don’t think he can come this year. He’s still adjusting to ruling Winterfell.”

Daenerys’ face fell subtly. “I see.”

Sansa bites her lip. “But he did say to tell you he misses you very much.”

A flit of a smile crosses Daenerys’ face. “Oh.”

“ _Oh.”_ Tyrion teases, unable to help himself. “Daenerys, do tell me you plan to propose to the poor lad before I die? I would so hate to miss the end to this thrilling saga.”   

She opens her mouth to respond, looking to Sansa as if she’d get some encouragement for rebuke, but Sansa only shrugs lightly, looking at the woman expectantly, as if she’d like an answer as well. Daenerys sighs lightly, pushing back her chair. “How could the union between the Queen and Warden of the North take place? Do you have any suggestions?”

Sansa looks at Tyrion, smiling, and he chuckles and reaches for the crystal decanter, pouring into her empty goblet. “Your grace, I believe it’s time for the wine.” 

-

They talk for an hour or so before a servant rushes in to whisper in Daenerys’ ear.

She stands abruptly, and the two rise with her. “Apologies, but it appears Drogon attempted to eat the Lord Commander.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I can’t even blame him. Tyrion, you really must help me find another while you’re here, this man is _insufferable_.”

“Of course.”

They take their leave after quickly assenting to taking their meal with her that night.

“That was enlightening.” Tyrion comments as they walk back to the Tower.

“I suppose the mystery is solved.” Sansa replies, folding her hands in front of her. “I had wondered why they weren’t betrothed, at the very least. Jon kept their relationship rather close to his chest.”

He sighs. “And to think, we’ve been hypothesizing about politics and conspiracies. It was all a matter of miscommunication.”

A dry laugh escapes her. “I should’ve thought of this first, knowing Jon.”

Tyrion harrumphs. “As should have I, with Dany. She’s sharp, but sometimes she needs someone to tell her what’s in front of her.”

Sansa _hmms_ quietly, glancing at him. “You grew close in the War?”

Tyrion nods. “She and I and Jon were on the front lines. I suppose we all grew rather close.”

“I’d heard about your disagreements when you were her Hand.”

“Disagreements.” Tyrion echoes, “Yes. I had some difficulty with the position when we had yet to reach Westeros; politics across the Narrow Sea aren’t quite what we’re used to. I’m ashamed to admit I did rather poorly there; she had every right to be angry.”

“I suppose you made up for it once you landed on Dragonstone.”

Tyrion can’t help but preen. “She sits the Iron Throne, does she not?”

 “She does, but I don’t know that you can take all of the credit for that.”

He sighs. “I suppose she did win the North without my help.”

“I wouldn’t say that, either.” Sansa pauses briefly to pick a small blooming rose, an almost secret smile on her face. “Winning one man, even their King, isn’t the same as winning the North. I deserve at least some of the credit for that.”

Tyrion looks at her curiously. “You told Jon to bend the knee?”

A dry laugh escapes her throat. “Oh, no. He did that by himself. But the North was ready to pick a new leader when they heard of it.”

Tyrion stares at her as realization sets in. _No..._ “They picked you as Queen.”

She nods, tugging at the rose’s petals. “They’re not very trusting, Northerners. Jon is of the North, and they love him for it, but—” She pauses. “they weren’t pleased to hear he had given up his power to a foreign queen weeks after meeting her.”

He doesn’t reply for a moment, mostly from the shock of the revelation. They’d offered Sansa a crown. She could have been Queen in the North, had she only said the word, and the Seven Kingdoms would have followed her example, fracturing into pieces until Daenerys had only King’s Landing to claim. She was so close to changing _everything_.

Tyrion can’t blame the North, though, for the sentiment. He’s tempted by the thought of Sansa Stark in a crown; if he hadn’t known Daenerys at the time, he thinks he’d likely be serving another Queen now.

But she hadn’t taken it.

“Why?” He asks her. He’s still staring, he knows, but he finds he needs to see her face to understand why she hadn’t taken the power she’s so rightly earned.

She shakes her head, understanding what he’s asking. “The crown wasn’t mine to take. Jon was King in the North.”

“He’d abandoned his people, bent the knee.” Tyrion presses, seeing through the stiffness of her answer. “Knowing your brother, I’d say he wouldn’t disavow you just because you’d taken the crown in his stead. He probably expected it. Love made him give it up. Why did you?”

Sansa stops, letting the petals she’d so precisely plucked fall from her palms. She doesn’t meet his eyes, looking at the last one that remains, a red drop nestled in ivory. “I didn’t know her,” She murmurs quietly, voice soft. “But I knew you. I’d heard she’d chosen you as her Hand. I knew that she must have _something_ to deserve your loyalty. You’ve never followed blindly, not when we were married nor after I left. And then Jon wrote, saying he’d bent the knee, so I thought… I thought there had to be something special there. _She_ had to be special.” 

His mouth is gaping open like a fish, he realizes belatedly, closing it and finally tearing his eyes from her face. “You… you followed Daenerys because of _me_?”

“Not entirely,” She says quickly, almost defensively, and starts to walk again, leaving him to follow. “But you were the… deciding factor.”

He doesn’t know how to react to that, to her implicit trust in him despite _thousands of miles_ between them, so he says nothing.

  _If I tried to say anything, it’d end with tears and a babbling love confession,_ he thinks.

 _That_ stray thought stops him, physically stops him so that he halts in his steps and nearly trips over his own feet. _A love confession? Is that what this is? Love?_

Sansa stops after he does in surprise, turning to look at him, a question in her eyes. “Are you alright?”

_Fuck._

Her brow crinkles. “What?”

He can feel his face burn. The last bit slipped out. “Please forgive me, my lady. I’m feeling unwell. I’ll see you tonight?”

He doesn’t wait on a response, too worried that she’ll coax something else out of him—this time aloud—and instead chooses to flee to his quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O H, N O. The High Septon won't be back? For two weeks?? Whatever will we do???
> 
> Also, how about my boy Tyrion getting his shit together?? He's the (second-to) last one to figure it out, but he did! Only one to go. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be so much simpler if he only wanted a fuck.
> 
> That would be reasonable. Everyone wanted to fuck Sansa Stark. He’s not entirely convinced even Margaery Tyrell didn’t have that singular goal in mind, years ago, when she guided the young girl through the nuances of court with a peculiar sort of familiarity. The Hound has eyed her, Littlefinger; Tyrion can even remember his own father paying close attention to her retreating figure at times. Tywin Lannister, a man with a heart cold as ice until his dying breath, had been warmed by Sansa Stark’s proximity.
> 
> But, alas, that isn’t all he wants. Tyrion is all too familiar with that desire, and quite used to sating it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting on me, y'all! I know it's been a little over a week, which sucks. Lo siento. But this chapter's a lil' bit longer to make up for it. Forgive me?

The realization that he is, in fact, in love with Sansa Stark isn’t a pleasant one.

He should’ve seen this coming, should’ve figured it out sooner—she’s gorgeous, witty, a natural leader, charming, kind. He’d thought earlier about how unnervingly perfect she was. Only, now, he’s realizing it’s not so much unnerving as it is completely and totally captivating.

He stews for a couple of hours, laying on his bed and pretending to read a book he’s already read a thousand times, eyes skimming the same paragraph repeatedly.

But he must’ve known this, somewhere deep down, because the thought leapt into his head casually, as if it was simply a known fact that happened to be relevant to the situation. Yes, he  must’ve known, somehow; even Bronn knew, despite his own protests. Bronn had had the right of it: he _did_ like her.

He chastises himself for being so obtuse. Of course he was in love with her. Hadn’t he been imagining their potential children for the last week? Hadn’t he been aiming to please her for the better part of a month?

He groans, abandoning the book on the floor and rolling onto his back.

It would be _so_ much simpler if he only wanted a fuck.

That would be reasonable. _Everyone_ wanted to fuck Sansa Stark. He’s not entirely convinced even Margaery Tyrell didn’t have that singular goal in mind, years ago, when she guided the young girl through the nuances of court with a peculiar sort of familiarity. The Hound has eyed her, Littlefinger; Tyrion can even remember his own _father_ paying close attention to her retreating figure at times. Tywin Lannister, a man with a heart cold as ice until his dying breath, had been warmed by Sansa Stark’s proximity.

But, alas, that isn’t all he wants. Tyrion is all too familiar with that desire, and quite used to sating it.

That isn’t to say he doesn’t want her, of course—he’s awoken many times in the night, so hard it _hurts_ , sweating from ridiculous, impossible dreams of her head thrown back in passion, slight hands fisted in his curls, a soft moan escaping her plump lips.  

He groans at the thought, screwing his eyes shut and ignoring the incessant need that’s creeping in yet again.

But that’s not all he wants. He doesn’t just want to ride her until he spills and collapse beside her and hope she leaves before dawn.

He wants to love her, slowly, over and over again until she forgets her name. He wants to tuck her against his chest in the dark, feel that cold nose in his neck, warm breaths tickling his ear. He wants to wake tangled in the morning, wants to pillow his head on her breasts while she strokes his hair, wants to kiss, _worship_ every inch of her body until he can’t remember any god except Sansa Stark.

He looks at the boar’s head hanging beside his bed, a remnant of King Robert’s time. “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

\--

Sansa has no idea what came over Tyrion.

He’d done it again—dissociating in the middle of a conversation. At this point, she’s starting to become less angry and more concerned.

At first she’d thought it was only lust, that he’d been deprived too long of his hobbies and was having trouble focusing. She wasn’t sure it made sense, considering how little she knows of the subject, but it had been the most logical explanation.

But this time he just… left. He wasn’t even looking at her, not really, they were talking about her decision to turn down the northern Crown, and then he’d frozen, staring off into space.

Had said “ _fuck_ ,” in a deep growl that sent warmth to her cheeks, made her shiver unexpectedly. 

And then… he’d fled.

 _Fled_.

She’d almost gone after him, truly. He’d look so pained, she’s sure there was something wrong with him. There must’ve been. He’d let his guard down enough to curse in front of her, really curse, not just a _damn_ like when he stubbed his toe or dropped something or spilled his wine.  He was usually so careful with his language, mindful of her presence, making sure his jokes were mild enough to just border shocking her sensibilities.

 _Maybe he’s sick,_ she thinks, finally making her way to her quarters. She’s heard, sometimes, of people getting inexplicable diseases that cause great pain for months before leading to death. It’d happened to one of her mother’s cousins; he’d had a pain in his bones that escalated until he’d been confined to his bed and eventually closed his eyes for the last time.

Sometimes it happened to the mind, too. Addling thoughts and changing a personality until it was unrecognizable, until they could no longer speak.

The thought pains her. It’s only a possibility, but the more she thinks about it the more it makes sense _. Maybe he knows_. After all, he’d changed his lifestyle recently, hadn’t he? She’d attributed it to maturity, but maybe it was for his health. Maybe that was why he’d taken the time to get to know her, to develop a friendship. He wanted to forge connections in his last days.

And all those times he’d gotten lost, mind wandering from the conversation… was it because he was sick? Had he been in pain?

She feels horrible—had she been so unkind to him, demanded he tell her what was happening, when he was dying? Did he not tell her because this was the secret he was keeping?

Sansa had planned on returning to her quarters, perhaps to find a book or finish knitting the cloak she’d started for Tyrion (after all, winter was here, even in Casterly Rock), but she finds that her feet have decided to take her to his door.

She debates leaving, but it only lasts a few seconds. She needs to know.

She knocks on the door lightly.

“Come in!” She hears Tyrion yell, and she hesitantly pushes the door open.

He’s sitting at the small table in the corner of his room, flipping through a large tome with a quill in hand over parchment. He doesn’t look up from his task. “Go get me some more wine, will you? At least two flagons; gods know I need it tonight.”

She smiles at his request, rolling her eyes. When she doesn’t run out the door immediately, he pauses and glances up from his work.

When he sees her, his eyes widen and he scrambles to his feet. “Lady Sansa! I’m so sorry, I didn’t think to-“

“It’s quite alright,” She assures him, closing the distance between them. She gestures to the seat across from him. “Might I-“

“Yes, yes, of course,” He rushes to pull the chair out for her before seating himself again. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.” Despite his words, he doesn’t seem annoyed by her company, only looking at her curiously.

She clears her throat, looking down at her folded hands. “Yes, I just needed to speak to you about something, and I didn’t have the patience to wait until tonight.”

“Oh?”

Sansa hesitantly reaches across the table, taking one of his hands. His eyes flit to hers in surprise as she soothes a thumb over a knuckle.

“I know the other day I was angry because you kept growing… distant, at times, when we were speaking. But today I was thinking about it, and—and I don’t know what you’re going through. I know we’ve grown close, but that doesn’t make me entitled to know every detail of your life. And I hope—” She hesitates, squeezing his hand and shutting her eyes, hoping to will away the wetness gathering there. “I just hope that you’re well, and if you need someone to speak to, I’m a raven away.”

His brow wrinkles. “Sansa, I’m quite well.”

She sighs in relief, fighting the urge to hug him.

“I appreciate your offer to talk,” He says, green eyes earnest, “and I’m sure I’ll take you up on it. I know I’ve been distant lately.” He sighs through his nose, looking down at their hands. “To be honest with you, it’s this business of finding a wife. It’s been tricky, you know. I’ll have to live with her for the rest of my life, but I have to pick one with nothing but these—” He nods down to the tome he’d pushed aside, “to go on. As if I’m to know whether I’ll like someone with a description of _comely, blonde hair, warm disposition, quiet demeanor._ What does _quiet demeanor_ even mean? Why would you use that word? Is it supposed to be positive? Is she a mute?”

He smiles at her, tension easing, and her face warms. “It likely means obedient.”

He snorts, finally releasing her hand to reach for his wine glass (she ignores how cold it grows). “Obedient? By the Seven, I couldn’t stand an agreeable little thing that listens to my every word. I need a good argument, now and again. Keeps the mind sharp.”

She stifles a laugh. “So you’d prefer someone outspoken?”

He sips his wine. “I don’t want an idiot who can’t shut her mouth, either. There’s a happy medium there, I’m sure, I just don’t know the word the maesters are using for it.” He thumps the book with his finger. “They give remarkably little information for how well they’re supposed to know these girls.”

She hums. “To be quite honest with you, I think you’ll need a woman, not a girl.”

He cocks his head, stares at her for a moment before replying. “I need someone to bear children, Sansa. This may come as a surprise to you, but most your age aren’t quite so…” He hesitates, looking at her warily. “mature.”

He’s looking at her so intensely that she feels her cheeks heat and she has to break eye contact. She knows what he means, but the way he’s looking at her… She has to clear her throat and nervously rearrange her skirts. “Well,” She says, “I’m sure there’s someone out there.”

The spell is broken, and he leans back in his chair, flipping his book open again. “Perhaps. If not, I suppose one of the Tyrell cousins will do. They’ve always been a smart enough lot.” He motions to a page, turning the book so she can see. “This _Brinna_ might do. Just had her twentieth name day, so I’m sure her parents are starting to feel a little desperate.”

Sansa nods, skimming the words.

_Brinna Tyrell:  Dark hair, brown of eye. Agreeable in conversation, fair in appearance. Enjoys riding, reading, and attending tournaments._

She makes a point to ignore the twist in her gut at the thought of this girl in a Lannister cloak, sitting in the seat she holds now. Tyrion can’t very well continue a close friendship with her once he’s married, after all; it would be indecent, considering her age and position. He’d find companionship in his new wife.

“They really aren’t very descriptive,” She says, echoing his earlier sentiment. “But from what’s here, I suppose she’s pleasant enough.”

Tyrion nods silently, accepting the book when she slides it back. “I only wish I could speak to her more than once before asking for her hand.”

“You could write.”

“I suppose.” He flips the page. “Those will certainly be read by her family, who I’m sure will orchestrate her response. I only want to—” He pauses, staring at his glass. “I just don’t want some girl forced into marriage with the Imp because her parents want her gone.”

She stares at him, heart breaking at his admission. “Tyrion,” She says, firmly enough that his eyes snap to hers, “Any girl you ask to marry you will count themselves lucky. You’re brave, you’re smart, and you’re _kind_.” The expression on his face is difficult to interpret, but she pushes on. “Listen to me. There are so few men that can claim the same. _So_ few.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, and it’s easy enough for her to see he’s skeptical, that’s he’s letting her speak but isn’t really hearing a thing, and she glares at him, frustrated.

 “Yes, you’re a dwarf. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the world around you in the past thirty years, but there are much worse things to be and you need to understand that before you pick who you’ll have to spend the rest of your life with. Because truly, you’re honorable. You’re a _good man_. You can have whoever you want, dwarf or not.”

 She stands then, and she knows she’s shocked him because he doesn’t rush to his feet. “I’ll see you tonight, my lord.”

\--

Sansa returns to her rooms, eager to find a flagon of wine to help her wind down. She knows it’s not the best habit to keep, but she finds it relaxes her. Besides, it’s not as though she’s getting drunk.

She pours herself a larger glass than normal and grabs one of Tyrion’s books off of the shelf at random, seating herself on her mattress.

She flips it open, only to stare at it pointlessly for a few minutes before giving up and tossing it aside, taking a long gulp of wine.

It’s not that she’s _upset_ Tyrion’s getting a wife. After all, the entire point of this journey was so that he could do just that. He needed a companion at the Rock, needed children to inherit it. She knew that. She’d talked to him about it at length, had given him advice on how to best live with a lady.

But… she’s not _happy_ about it, either.

She doesn’t really know why. She does want him to be happy, truly. She knows he needs someone to keep him company. For all of Tyrion’s tendencies to push people away, she can tell he craves affection, craves friendship, connections. It’s why betrayal has always affected him so acutely.

So she doesn’t want him to be alone. But she doesn’t want to lose him, either.

Because that’s what will happen. He’ll marry this Brinna Tyrell girl, he’ll get a child on her, he’ll start a family. He’ll forget her, forget their friendship. And _of_ _course_ he will, and he should; family is more important than an ex-wife who was never more than a brief friend; she knows that.

It’s true, they’ve only really been close for the past month, and she’d managed fine before that. But now… now that she’s had a taste of it, of what it’s like to have someone to rely on, to trust, she thinks it’ll hurt, going back to her life before. She was so alone in Winterfell, even with Jon around. He had the Wildlings to take care of, had Ghost, even had Daenerys to write to. He was her brother, it’s true, but he wasn’t a steady companion like Tyrion had become.

This situation wouldn’t be so bad if she had any prospects herself. But she hadn’t been lying when she’d told Tyrion that she didn’t think she’d ever marry again. It’s not that she’s scared, exactly; not all men were like Ramsay, like Joffrey. But there’s no way to know what they’re like. After all, she’d thought Ramsay charming and handsome up until a day before their wedding, and she’d known him for well over a week, seeing and speaking with him every day. She won’t even get that if she’s courted again.

She doesn’t want to lose his friendship, not when it’s so unlikely that she’ll marry again, that she’ll be able to find someone to replace his input.

No, the truth of the matter is that there’s no one she knows well enough, trusts enough to marry. No one good, kind, strong.

 _There’s Tyrion,_ that treacherous part of her mind whispers.

For once, she lets the thought out, considers it.

Yes, there’s Tyrion. She hadn’t been lying to him earlier, or exaggerating. He is good and kind. and clever. He’s a great friend, and she’s sure he’ll make a great husband. If she wanted a husband, he’d be ideal for her, really. He’s smart enough to keep up with her, he won’t restrict her, won’t hurt her. He’d value her input, really listen to her, consider what she thinks.

But they’re here to end this farce of a marriage. If he wanted to keep it, he’d presumably have mentioned it before deciding to travel in a month of cold weather to annul it.

Besides, even if he wanted to keep the marriage, there were a million other obstacles. At some point, probably soon, Jon was finally going to marry Daenerys and take his place in King’s Landing by her side. She would have to be in Winterfell to run the North; Jon wouldn’t leave if there wasn’t a Stark willing to take his place. And of all people, she knows Jon deserves happiness; she’ll be last person to block his path to it.

Worse, she doesn’t know she’d be able to give Tyrion what he so desperately needed for the Rock: heirs.

Tully women have always been fertile, it’s true: her mother had told her it would be one of her greatest advantages when they finally made a match for her. But that was as a girl. When she was married to Ramsay, her elderly maid had snuck her moon tea every morning; at the time, she’d warned Sansa that such repeated use could hurt her chances in the future, if she ever wanted children. At the time, she hadn’t cared; she’d only wanted to escape Ramsay’s clutches alive and then preferably avoid sex for the rest of her life.

She doesn’t regret the decision, really. If she’d had Ramsay’s child, the Seven only knew how he would corrupt it; he’d probably have kept it from her anyway, keen to deny her any bit of happiness.

Still, the thought that there’s a possibility her womb won’t quicken ever again saddens her.

No, she couldn’t marry Tyrion Lannister.

Even if she wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, they still don't have their shit together. I'm sorry. But I feel like they're definitely working on it, and something definitely has to happen in the next three chapters so I can finally finish this fic. So on the bright side, your patience is going to pay off? 
> 
> Also, I feel like I should clarify part of this chapter: I don't personally ship Sansa with Margaery or really anyone besides Tyrion, but I had to take a little dig at her chemistry with LITERALLY THE ENTIRE CAST. Sophie Turner is a queen and I love her.
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it! Let me know in the comments, I love to hear what y'all think! :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to continue their friendship after he’s married, truly, but he knows he can’t, not to the degree that they have now. He’s thought about this often since they’d left the North; there’s no way around it. Once he marries, it won’t be acceptable to communicate frequently with a young, beautiful heiress. He doesn’t want to do that to his wife, either, truth be told: who could ever live up to Sansa Stark? It would be cruel. He wouldn’t be unfaithful in the marriage bed, but in the mind, which he thinks may be worse.
> 
> No, he and Sansa’s friendship will more or less have to end when their marriage does.
> 
> And if your marriage doesn’t?
> 
> He scowls into his pillow at his treacherous thoughts, but once it’s there it won’t leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I hate myself. This chapter is literally a third of what I had outlined for it. And I have a final tomorrow. I wrote this instead of studying, what the fuck is wrong with me, this ship is literally going to make me fail physics and I don't even have the strength to give a shit. 
> 
> (Also, fyi, hopefully another chapter up soon. Like, this weekend soon. Now that this bitch ass class is over I actually have free time.)

The dinner that night is rushed. Daenerys is late, but does make an appearance for the main course before a servant comes to inform her that Drogon has, in fact, unexpectedly eaten the Lord Commander (but that she should continue eating—no one actually seems to care). Daenerys curses, ignoring the advices and abruptly standing and leaving.

(Tyrion sees a twinkle in her eye at the news and isn’t confident the Lord Commander’s unfortunate accident was _entirely_ unexpected.)

He and Sansa finish the meal pleasantly enough, discussing the new vacancy in the Council and who should fill it. They eventually both agree that Podrick—who currently serves the Kingsguard—would make a fine commander and resolve to give their suggestion to Daenerys. 

“You’re sure he doesn’t want children?”  Sansa asks Tyrion, puzzled.

Tyrion snorts. “Podrick doesn’t know what he wants. Besides, I have it on good authority that the rules regarding the personal lives of the Kingsguard could change soon.”

“Really?” She asks, interest piqued.

He nods in affirmation, taking another bite of cake and swallowing before responding. “I thought it a wise change, and Dany agreed.”

“Oh.”

There’s a light lull as they finish eating. Sansa appears to lose herself in thought, and Tyrion has no desire to interrupt her; he thinks she’s rather beautiful when she’s concentrating. When she finishes her meal, she bids him goodnight, rushing to leave the dining hall.

He thinks it’s odd but decides to give it a pass considering his own strange behavior of late.

He spends the night tossing and turning yet again, unable to drift to sleep when he closes his eyes.

One would think that one would cease thinking about an object of affection when that object is discovered to be completely out of one’s reach, but Tyrion finds that the opposite is true. He can’t stop thinking about her; about what she did before bed, what she would be doing the next day, why she seemed distracted at dinner.

He thinks about her own marriage prospects; would she really never marry again? Sure, she says so now, but surely that would change once she discovered the loneliness of such solitude, especially if Jon leaves her alone in the North. She’d need some sort of a companion, but he had no idea where she’d find one. Sansa’s like him; she needs someone quick enough to keep up, someone who isn’t so preoccupied with the superficial that they forget what life is. What if she never finds that in Winterfell? What if she’s alone for the rest of her days?

He wants to continue their friendship after he’s married, truly, but he knows he can’t, not to the degree that they have now. He’s thought about this often since they’d left the North; there’s no way around it. Once he marries, it won’t be acceptable to communicate frequently with a young, beautiful heiress. He doesn’t want to do that _to_ his wife, either, truth be told: who could ever live up to Sansa Stark? It would be cruel. He wouldn’t be unfaithful in the marriage bed, but in the mind, which he thinks may be worse.

No, he and Sansa’s friendship will more or less have to end when their marriage does.

_And if your marriage doesn’t?_

He scowls into his pillow at his treacherous thoughts, but once it’s there it won’t leave.

His mind starts to drift to impossible _what-ifs_ : if he talked her out of the annulment, what she’d look like seeing Casterly Rock, what her eyes would look like with a sunset reflecting in them as she watched the blue waves crashing against cliffs of lush green.

If he gifted her with a new horse, perhaps a bay mare, how her red hair would look flowing in the breeze as she galloped through the hunting trails in the woods.

If he got to introduce her to his aunt Genna; he’s sure they’d get along, that he’d at first pretend to be annoyed by the way the two would inevitably tease him, but that he’d enjoy it more than anything.

If she had to get a new wardrobe fit for Southern tastes and weather: soft silks, loose hair, breezy open backs, a neck low enough to reveal _just_ the softest curve of a warm breast.

It’s the last thought that has him unconsciously bucking his hips into the mattress.

He rolls onto his back, bringing his pillow with him over his face so he can groan loudly into it.

He has _got_ to stop jerking off to thoughts of Sansa Stark.

He resolves to ignore his now-throbbing length, trying to think of anything else, because really, he _does_ have to stop this. She doesn’t deserve it; she deserves his upmost respect and loyalty, not to be the object of a sex fantasy.

  _She’s not some whore you can use as you please, Tyrion,_ he admonishes himself. _She’s a sweet woman with a good heart._

 _Don’t forget the perky tits,_ an inner voice that sounds oddly like Bronn replies.

Tyrion throws his pillow to the side, giving in and pulling up his night shirt to get to his cock, a flood of thoughts of her spilling into his mind. He can’t resist, not anymore, not with all his mind has gone through today, not with how long it’s been since he’s had a release.

Because it really has been too long, _far_ too long. He hasn’t had a woman in _years_.

And Sansa… Sansa.

It’d be far easier if she were uglier, he thinks, giving himself a light stroke. If she didn’t have perfect pink lips that she constantly, _constantly_ felt the need to bite in conversation. If she didn’t blush so prettily at a hint of a scandal, at the muttered curse. If she didn’t have those warm thighs, those full breasts that he’d felt pressing against him in the night.

 If only she didn’t stare at him so intently as they talked, as if she was hanging onto his every word, and thinking, really thinking about everything he had to say. If she didn’t laugh at his terrible jokes, didn’t grab his hand just when he was wishing for it.

But she did.

And it doesn’t help that now he knows her, and he knows, just _knows_ what she’d do—

_\--She’d reach for his face, nails running gently through his beard. Leaning over him, full breasts so close to spilling out of a too-tight corset, the hint of pink peeking through before she presses against his chest, before she brings her mouth ever-so-softly to his—_

_—She’d run soft hands through his hair, over his lips, until she glideszs her fingers through the coarse hair on his abdomen—_

He rubs the tip of his cock, biting his lip to stop a moan as he wets his palm.

 _She grips him, not tight enough—gods, because she doesn’t know, doesn’t_ know _—but looks up at him, wide-eyed, gives an experimental squeeze—_

He wraps a fist around the base of his girth, letting the slick guide his hand to his tip, finally allowing himself to pump furiously because if he could _only_ let go, maybe this incessant need will finally end, will release him from this slave he has become to Sansa Stark’s whim.

_She’s not looking at him anymore, no, now she’s looking at his cock as she tugs it, biting that damned bottom lip—_

He can’t keep the moan in this time, letting his hand work at its own pace, tugging hard enough he thinks he’ll chafe, but he’s close now, so close—

_She’s leaning down again, as if to get a closer look, but then she keeps going, red hair spilling over her shoulder, her corset sliding down enough that he gets a glimpse of a swollen nipple before her eyes dart to him, hesitant, and she opens her mouth to—_

He comes then, hard, white ribbons coating his stomach, unable to even finish the beginning of his perverted fantasy.

He lets his hand fall to the side, panting as he stares at the ceiling.

He may not be able to touch Sansa, but now that he’s in King’s Landing, he can certainly touch _someone_.

Maybe that will get her out of his system.

\--

He ventures into the city the next morning before most of the castle is awake, dressed in the closest thing he can find to plain clothes in the Tower.

No one stops him or seems to recognize him as he weaves through the city’s market; there are enough dwarves here for the theater scene that he’s not a shocking sight. Besides, it’s common knowledge that he resides at Casterly Rock now, and it’s doubtful that his arrival the night before was broadcasted.

His hair no longer shines gold, either; it’s darkened over the years. He even spots threads of grey every now and again.

No, the Tyrion Lannister of King’s Landing no longer exists. In his place is an older, war-hardened, fool in love with a woman far beyond his stature.

Still, though, he can’t help but visit his old haunts.

First he stops by the jeweler he used to visit; he’d buy his whores pretty bracelets of diamond sometimes, and he has a soft spot for this particular man. The jeweler lost a leg in Robert’s Rebellion, but somehow managed to use his talents with his hands to carve a thriving business.

He flashes coin at the man in front of the door, who nods and steps aside. Tyrion makes his way through the little shop, spotting the owner speaking to another client. He sighs, deciding to browse as he waits.

He runs his hands along the cases, easily picking out the designs he’d gifted some of his favorite girls. Designs he’d gifted Shae.

A glint of silver, rather than gold, catches his eyes, standing out. He leans over to inspect the piece, picking it up.

It’s a necklace; not particularly intricate or flashy. Just a simple silver chain with a pendant.

The pendant is a weirwood tree.

It’s beautiful, really, for being so simple: just a circle of branches, small rubies dotting the ends, forming the bleeding eyes.

It’d look beautiful around Sansa’s neck.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and he’s broken from his thought, jumping guiltily, as if he’s been caught with his hands full of sweets.

It’s the jeweler, grinning at him. “Lord Lannister.”

Tyrion can’t help but smile back. “Cryus. How’d you know it was me?”

The other man barks out a short laugh. “No other dwarves rich enough to get in.”

“Ah.”

“And the, uh—” He motions to his face, making a diagonal line.

“Oh, yes,” Tyrion absently runs a hand over the puckered scar. “I suppose trying to sneak around was a futile effort.”

“Mmh.” Cryus hums in agreement, leaning in closer, squinting at Tyrion’s hand. “Now what have you got there? Forgive me—my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Tyrion sets the necklace back down in the box quickly, as though it burns him. “Oh, nothing. I was just looking.”

“Staring an awful long time to be _just looking_ , milord.”  Cryus reaches over and picks up the necklace, bringing it close to his face to make it out. “Oh, yes. I made this piece years ago, after I saw the godswood in the Red Keep. Never sold—my buyers prefer gold.” He looks to Tyrion. “As I remember, so do you. Why’s this caught your eye?”

Tyrion opens his mouth to retort, but closes it when he realizes he can’t. After a beat, too long a beat—Cryus takes pity on him, sighing and leaning back in his chair. “A Northern girl, is it?”

He stares at him in shock. “I—no!”

“Oh, your lovely wife, maybe? The Stark woman?”

Tyrion frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just liked the rubies.”

“I’m sure you did.” Cryus looks up at him silently, intently enough that Tyrion shifts on his feet under the man’s gaze. Finally, he looks away. “Alright, very well.”

“Alright what?” Tyrion asks warily.

Cryus holds his fist out, the necklace dangling from it. “Take it. It wasn’t going to sell anyway.”

The dwarf shakes his head, hands up. “No, I couldn’t.”

“You can,” Cryus insists, hand still out. “Now take it, my arms are getting weaker. It’s very rude to disrespect your elders.”

Tyrion does so, hesitant. “Let me give you some coin.”

“No.” Cryus says, and Tyrion could swear the man was looking right through him in that moment. “As I said, it wasn’t going to sell. And I’m certain that you’re the reason I could afford a house and three children, anyway. Let me repay you.” The old man calls for his man—the one who had dragged his chair over–and gives Tyrion a final once-over. “Give it to your Lady. Find happiness of your own, milord, and do it before I die. I’d be very happy to make a matching bracelet.”

Tyrion watches as he leaves, then stares down at the necklace in his hand.

The rubies are the same color as her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Hides*
> 
> I don't know what I'm doing! Please be kind!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion spends the rest of the day wandering the city.
> 
> His sister may have burned a quarter of King’s Landing, but he finds it’s more or less the same place he learned as a boy. It smells of shit, small children race the streets, weaving through walking residents, taverns can be heard from a lane over. The people of King’s Landing are always in a hurry, rushing from one place to the next, never slowing. They’d run over you if you got in the way; he’d learned that the hard way long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd update again! Look at me go! It's only been like two days!
> 
> (Despite me, once again, not studying for the damn calc quiz I have tomorrow. But whatever, as long as the Sanrion stays strong, amiright?)
> 
> I'm having way too much fun with this. These last few chapters are finna be lit as hell to write, so updates may be coming more frequently. :))))
> 
> Also, warning: you're going to have a love/hate relationship with this chapter. So I'm sorry, but also you're welcome?

Tyrion spends the rest of the day wandering the city.

His sister may have burned a quarter of King’s Landing, but he finds it’s more or less the same place he learned as a boy. It smells of shit, small children race the streets, weaving through walking residents, taverns can be heard from a lane over. The people of King’s Landing are always in a hurry, rushing from one place to the next, never slowing. They’d run over you if you got in the way; he’d learned that the hard way long ago.

So he sticks to the edge of the streets, keeping an eye out for open windows and chamber pots.

He finds his favorite sweet shop—it’d been rebuilt, apparently having been one of the unlucky structures that had burned thanks to his sister. He purchases a sour candy for himself and Daenerys, some lemon cakes for Sansa—the kitchen doesn’t make them this time of year.

He pops one of his mouth, sticks his hands in his breeches’ pockets as he strolls, observing the new shops in the area. They really do make the street look nice, he thinks. It almost makes one think they were in Lannisport, with the clean cobblestones. The smell even abates a bit here, which is quite a feat considering that they’re in the middle of the city.

He comes across a brothel soon on the right side of the street.

It’s a new building, but it had definitely been on this street before. He knows; it’d been one of his favorites. The girls in here had _incredible_ tongues.

He isn’t going to stop, at first, despite his original plans that day. He just isn’t in the mood.

But then he pulls his hand out, and realizes he’s been absent-mindedly clutching the necklace in his pocket as he walked, fingering the grooves.

He stares down at it for a moment, then shoves it back in his pocket and resolutely makes his way to the door.

It’s not like a good fuck could _hurt_ his chances of getting over her.

\--

Sansa spends most of the day in her chambers.

She’d resolved the night before to stop thinking about Tyrion, to stop trying to come up with reasons to seek him out. She needed to start preparing herself now for the inevitable separation, to ease herself back into her old life of solitude.

It’s not ideal, but it’s her duty. And if there’s anything Sansa Stark knows, it’s duty.

So she spends the day not reading, not strolling with Tyrion or watching men train, but going over Winterfell’s accounts. Making definite plans for Jon’s departure.

Because she’s been avoiding it, she knows. It’s obvious to her now, really. Jon hadn’t left Winterfell yet, hadn’t come to King’s Landing, hadn’t married Daenerys and taken his rightful place as Hand because of her. She had been trying, before, not to consider that too much. She hadn’t wanted Jon to leave her alone.

Because, in truth, she'd missed having a pack.

The two years of the War were awful because there was no one with her. She had herself, the maester, and her people to take care of. She had no one to confide in, had no real friendships. She had been terribly lonely.

But she’s been selfish, she sees that now, especially with Daenerys’ questioning about Jon, with how busy the Queen was with ruling, with bearing the weight of the Seven Kingdoms on her shoulders, alone. She missed Jon, and Sansa knew Jon missed her.

Sansa would miss her brother too, it’s true, but it wasn’t fair of her to keep him from his lover because she couldn’t face Winterfell alone.

So she writes out trade agreements, plans for the transition of power, for Jon’s new position as Hand. She reviews the taxes collected, creates a workable timeline for rebuilding.

She spends the day preparing, forgetting the midday meal and only stopping long after dusk, when there’s a knock at her door.

\--

The brothel is a new building, but whoever had rebuilt had evidently decided they liked the original floor plan, as Tyrion immediately recognizes it and makes his way to the front.

This brothel was one of his favorites for a number of reasons. It had a wide selection of girls, all talented. It wasn’t one of Littlefinger’s—he’d always hated the slimy man—but a woman’s, who’d once been a whore herself. She’d treated the girls well, considering the line of work. Besides that, there was a tunnel underneath it that led directly to the castle. He’d always found that helpful when his father was in town.

The owner immediately recognizes him as he walks up to the desk, standing and smiling. “Lord Lannister! I didn’t know you were in the city.”

“I only arrived recently,” Tyrion replies, glancing over to some of the girls splayed out on the couches, chatting, waiting for clients, watching him.

“I see,” She replies, following his gaze, sensing that he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. “And how many would you like to take care of you tonight?”

“Just one.”

She nods briskly. “Girls!” She calls, voice shrill.

They all stand, sauntering over and lining up for him.

He folds his hand behind his back, walking down the line, considering each, noticing several he’s had before.

“Well? Anyone you like?”

Yes, actually, there’s a redhead that catches his eye. But that would defeat the purpose.

He stops, jutting his chin to a short fair-haired girl, so thin he can see her ribs. “You any good with your tongue?”

She bites her lip, running a hand down her hip. “Yes, my lord. One of my specialties.”

The owner clears her throat, stepping beside him. “This is Laurane. Shall I show you to a room?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The girl—Laurane—takes his hand and leads him, giggling. He tries to relax—this isn’t anything he hasn’t done a thousand times. She has an incredible arse, too, for someone so thin. This shouldn’t be a problem.

When the door clicks behind them, she immediately drops to her knees, grabbing his doublet and pulling him close. “I’ve heard about you,” She says, starting at his buttons.

“Oh?” He says absentmindedly, relaxing into the touch.

She smiles up at him, nodding. “The girls missed you when you left King’s Landing for Winterfell, all those years ago. Said you really knew how to use a cock.”

He makes himself touch her, reaching a hand out to knead her shoulder as she continues to work at his buttons.  “You say that to every man who comes in here, don’t you?”

She shakes her head, finally finishing with his doublet, pushing it off his shoulders. “Not every man. Besides, I’m telling the truth.” She pauses, running a hand down his chest. “ _The dwarf with the lovely cock,_ they said.”

“Hmm.” He replies, letting his hand wrap itself in her hair. “You don’t have to stroke my ego, too, dear. I’m not most men—I really do just want what I paid for.”

She eyes him for a second before shrugging and standing so that he has to release her. “Alright,” She says, shrugging off the breast band she wears that barely covered anything to begin with, then pushing down the scrap of cloth around her waist. “How’s this?”

He eyes her small tits, her narrow waist. “Better.”

“Good.” She kneels again, this time not bothering with his linen shirt, going straight for the laces on his breeches and pulling out his cock.

He hisses, the touch making him abruptly remember his years of celibacy.

“Oh, is he sensitive?” Laurane teases, stroking him roughly, bringing him to attention.

He glares at her, is about to retort- but the takes it as a sign to take him in her mouth.

He chokes at the warmth enveloping him, grabbing her head as she makes good on the promise of a skilled tongue, licking, teasing, _sucking, gods—_

It’s good, really, almost too good, and for a split second he can’t remember why he gave this up, why he decided to go celibate when you could have a soft body pressed against you, _around_ you. So good it almost hurts. 

He starts to help guide her, pushing her a little harder onto him (though she _clearly_ needs no instruction), unable to stop a pitiful sound from escaping his lips as she builds him up, up, _up_ -

His mind picks that moment to bring up Sansa’s face.

Not even one that could help in this moment, no—that would be too easy.

 He sees an image of her as she finds out. Of those wide blue Tully eyes widening, of the inevitable look of disappointment. A gasp of surprise, a touch of hurt.

The girl—the girl with hair too light, body too thin, looks up at him as she sucks him off, moaning for his benefit.

And despite his best effort, despite how easy he _knows_ this should be, he can’t do it.

He grabs the girls head, pushes her off of him. “No—stop.” He tucks himself back into his breeches, staring at her, panting. “I can’t.”

She looks at him oddly as he backs away, and he can see a flash of annoyance in her eyes. She thinks she won’t get paid.

“My lord,” She purrs, leaning on her hands and crawling toward him to best display her hanging breasts. “I think you can.”

He shakes his head, turns slightly. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his coin purse and counts out a healthy sum—a far better tip than she would normally receive. “Take this and go.” He commands, holding out his hand.

She obeys silently, sliding her clothes back on and slipping out the door.

He sits on the bed they hadn’t touched and puts his face in his hands, struggling not to let the tears burning his eyes fall.

\--

It’s the last place he should go, but when he returns to the Red Keep that night he somehow ends up in front of Sansa’s door, knocking softly.

When she doesn’t immediately call for him to come in, he comes to his senses.

He can’t be here. He can’t. What will he say— _I tried to fuck a whore today, but I couldn’t because I thought you wouldn’t like it_ , or _I went to a brothel to get you out of my head, but instead I bought you a necklace,_ or _I cried like a child today because I’m going to miss you_ , or _Sansa, I’m in love with you_ —

He leaves, quickly, rounding the corner just as he hears the door open. He presses himself against the wall until he hears it shut, then pulls out the damned necklace again.

He can already tell—he won’t be able to sleep tonight.

\--

She thinks the knocking was a little odd but doesn’t think too much of it. She assumes a servant had come to give her food and perhaps had forgotten something, or maybe someone found the wrong door.

Thoughts of danger flit across her mind briefly, but she dismisses them quickly. Dany had a member of the Kingsguard outside the Tower, commanding around twenty men at any given time.

She decides to finish working for the day then, finally eating some of the fruits a servant had left on a side table a few hours ago and readying herself for bed.

Once in bed, though, her mind won’t stop whirring, thinking up different possible scenarios for Jon’s departure, for the future of the Seven Kingdoms. And her stomach growls—it doesn’t help that she’s still hungry.

She makes it an hour or so before finally deciding to go to the kitchens to find a scrap of something left over to sate her appetite. She grabs a candle, quietly creeping into the hallway and making her way down the stairs to the kitchens.

She has to rummage around to find food, but eventually she spots some pigeon pie and a basket of apples. She eats her fill, regretting that she didn’t think to bring anything to drink, and disposes with what’s left.

Then she again ventures out to the hallway and is about to turn to the stairs again when she spots a faint glow coming from the next room—the library.  

She knows it must be Tyrion—there’s no one else who’d be awake at this hour reading. Unthinkingly, she goes in, knocking gently on the open door.

She sees him swiftly rise from his position on the padded bench, craning his neck to see who’s interrupted him. Surprise crosses his features. “Sansa.”

“Tyrion.” She walks over, seats herself beside him. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Couldn’t,” He admits, marking the place of the book he’d been reading and setting it aside. “I’ve been restless lately. And you?”

She knots her fingers in her shift (she belatedly realizes she _definitely_ should’ve grabbed a dressing gown before leaving the confines of her room). “The same.”

She’s not looking at his face, but she can just _tell_ he’s cocking one brow at her. “Oh?”

She glances at him; sure enough, there’s the brow. “I’m planning to tell Jon to ask for Daenerys’ hand.”

Tyrion doesn’t reply at first, silently leaning back, sinking into the cushioning of the seat. After a moment, “I see.”

She looks back at her lap. “He deserves it. They both do.”

“Happiness?”

She _hmms_ in affirmation. “I’ve been selfish, trying to keep him to myself in the North. He loves her. She loves him.”

“You weren’t being selfish.” He murmurs.

“Wasn’t I?” She meets his eyes. “I told him I didn’t want to run Winterfell, that it was his right. This entire time, I’ve been pushing him to stay. It’s not fair to ask that of him, I know it, and so do you.”

There’s a full silence again, and she leans back then, into the cushion next to him. He sighs gently through his nose, finally. “It’s not selfish to not want to be alone.”

“It is if I’m making him be miserable with me.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t make your brother miserable.”

She shuts her eyes. “He misses her, I know he does. They write, but that’s no substitute for the real thing. I just… I just don’t want him to miss his life, his love, because he’s worried about me.”

He looks over at her. “So you’re going to take Winterfell?”

She nods.

There’s a rustling beside her, and she turns and watches as he struggles to reach in his pocket.

“Here,” He says, holding out his fist.

She looks at him, curious, but holds an open hand underneath it. He places metal in her hand, warmed from its place against him.

She leans forward to get a good look at it in the candlelight.

“A necklace?” She says when she realizes, turning it over. It’s beautiful—a weirwood, like the one in Winterfell, intricately crafted, but small, simple. Inlaid with glinting rubies.

“I saw it in the market today. Thought you’d like it.”

“I…” She stares down at it, rubs a thumb over the weeping red eyes. “I do, very much. Thank you.”

He shrugs, nonchalantly, as if he doesn’t care that she likes it, as if the gesture meant nothing.

But she’s learned to read Tyrion Lannister over the past few weeks—and he’s quite pleased she likes it.

“You’re welcome.”

She closes her hand around it, placing it in her lap. “What were you reading?” She questions, changing the subject, loathe to analyze that particular finding before she’s alone.

He grabs the book he’d set down on the small table in front of them. “It’s about Rhaegar Targaryen. Most of it’s no longer true, but…” He hands it to her. “Still an interesting read, if you’d like.”

“Weren’t you in the middle of it?”

He waves her off. “I’ve read it already. Besides, I have this—” He pulls a book from a stack she hadn’t noticed before. “—to get started on.”

She cedes, opening the cover. “Alright, if you’ve already read it.”

They settle, then, leaning back into the couch next to each other. She knows she’s sitting too close to him than is proper, but she doesn’t really care. There’s no one around. Besides, she’s technically still his wife. She can do as she likes.

So she sits close enough that their legs brush, that she can feel the warmth of him radiating through her thin shift, before she starts the book.

They read well into the night, and she feels her eyes start to water soon enough. She isn’t going to sleep, just closing them for a moment so they’ll stop burning.

She tells herself that until she finally does doze off, her head sliding down to land on Tyrion’s shoulder.

His lies on top of hers moments later, breathing relaxed and even. The book slips to the floor out of his hand, forgotten.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol, @ all of y'all who were like "hahaha ofc he forgot about the brothel". Also, sorry. 
> 
> But they're cute as hell, so. You'll live.
> 
> If you liked it, drop me a comment or a kudos! Feedback gives me life :))


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes the next morning warm, soft, well-rested.
> 
> It doesn’t take long to realize why.
> 
> She’d once again fallen asleep with Tyrion; this time on the wide sofa in the library. She doesn’t know how neither of them had fallen off in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, folks! Only two chapters left! 
> 
> (I say two, but I know good and damn well I won't be able to leave this story without a cute-ass epilogue. Might as well make it an even 20, right?)
> 
> So I know I'm a bit late, but this chapter is sort of long, and I had to do a good bit of editing, since I wrote this in the middle of the night on a weird adrenaline rush. I use a lot of commas on a normal basis, but somehow I had even more than normal? Usually I'm a firm believer that there's no such thing as too many commas, but good Lord. I might have a problem.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Sansa wakes the next morning warm, soft, well-rested.

It doesn’t take long to realize why.

She’d once again fallen asleep with Tyrion; this time on the wide sofa in the library. She doesn’t know how neither of them had fallen off in the night.

Well. She _does_ know.

He has her back pulled snugly against his front, an arm looped around her waist, nose planted in her neck. She’s on the edge of the couch, yes, but he’s holding her tightly enough she doesn’t have much room to move.

He also has a hand planted firmly on her breast.

She ignores that detail for the moment, not particularly inclined to move, despite the awkwardness of the situation. Despite something firm pressing into her back.

She feels a little guilty for closing her eyes, for not immediately trying to move away. But, in her defense, she’s really lying on _top_ of his hand, and he’s holding her fairly firmly, and if she tries to move it’ll only wake him, and then he’ll get flustered and probably avoid her for the day.

Besides, she’s so _warm_.

And—she decides not to lie to herself, not in this moment—she likes this. She likes being wrapped in Tyrion’s arms, likes his breath tickling her neck. For a brief moment, she lets herself imagine this, every morning. Sleeping soundly, all night, a warm body to stave off the cold. Waking up feeling safe, rested. Loved.

She wants that—wants it so bad it _hurts_ —and so it takes every ounce of her willpower to open her eyes. To face the reality that she can’t have him, because she has the North to see after. Because she is a Stark, and there must _always_ be a Stark in Winterfell.

She’s just made up her mind to carefully extricate herself from Tyrion’s hold when she feels him exhale against her neck roughly. She freezes, worried he’s waking up—closes her eyes so he won’t know she’s awake.

But the moment passes, and when he doesn’t move again for a long moment, she’s gathered the courage to try again.

Except—except he grunts in his sleep, low, and tightens the arm around her waist.

And squeezes her breast.

She yelps—really, can’t help but yelp, she’s so surprised—and winces when she feels movement behind her, signaling his awakening.

“Sansa?” He mumbles into her ear. Then- “Oh, shit! Sansa!” He wrenches back the hand wound around her stomach, tries to pull his hand out from under her (and failing). “Oh gods, I’m sorry,” He’s saying, still trying to move his now-flattened hand without shoving her off the couch. It’s rather difficult, so he doesn’t do much more than awkwardly pull at the side of her shift, and she feels it best not to tell him he’s actually pulling it _down_.

“’s alright,” She tells him, finally taking pity on him and carefully moving his hand, sitting up.

“No, it’s not,” He says, scooting back on the seat, eyes wild, “I was—I was _fondling_ you in your sleep, I can’t believe I did that, I’m so sorry—” His mouth is open after that, wordless, as if he wants to keep spitting out apologies but hasn’t thought of another yet.

“No, really, it’s okay.” She says again, firmly this time. He stares at her in shock, but she shakes her head. “You were asleep, Tyrion. Besides, don’t pretend I didn’t do worse after the snowstorm.”

He’s still staring at her, probably wondering why she’d brought it up as they’d _definitely_ had an unspoken agreement to never speak of it again—she doesn’t know herself, to be honest, it’d just slipped out. She feels her cheeks heat and she looks away to study the bookshelves, the floor, _anything_ but the expression on his face.

“I—” He chokes out, before collecting himself. “That was different,” He says, calmly.

“It was not.” She retorts, probably too quickly.

“Sansa, yes—” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling. “Men don’t typically mind such…” He stops again, searching the ceiling as if he’ll find the word he’s looking for there. “—such _contact_. I assure you, I was not offended, not as I have offended you.”

“But I didn’t mind,” She says softly.

When he doesn’t reply, she chances a glance at him. And he’s just… _blinking_ at her, mouth slightly parted, no words coming out.

She realizes that perhaps she shouldn’t have admitted that out loud, as the man _is_ currently looking for a wife and she is _not_ supposed to be trying to seduce him. “I mean—” She rushes to say, “I mean it’s alright. You’ve done no harm.”

He stops staring, looks away. Nods, clears his throat. “Still, my apologies, Lady Stark.”

\---

They had parted rather quickly after that, Tyrion citing an appointment with the Queen and Sansa a desire to change clothes.

He wasn’t technically lying. He _did_ have an appointment with the Queen—in several hours. For now, he needed to find Bronn and have yet another conversation about the Lady Stark.

Honestly, the man knows _far_ too much about his love life.

It didn’t take many inquiries to find his sellsword.

He tips the owner of the brothel—the same one he’d visited the day before—to tell him what room Bronn inhabits. He doesn’t even consider knocking, already knowing what he’ll find, and shoves the door open with his shoulder.

As he’d assumed, Bronn is awoken by the noise (the man has a tendency to sleep well into the day), as is the girl in the bed. The whore squeals at the intrusion, clutching the sheets to her chest.

Not just any whore—Laurane.

Once she makes him out, squinting in the morning sun, she relaxes. She’d probably thought he was a goldcloak; he imagines the guards intrude in this establishment far more these days. She stands, embarrassment gone, and walks to him in naught but a necklace. He pointedly looks at her face.

“Lord Tyrion,” She says, smiling, licking her lips. “Come to finish what we started?”

“No, thank you,” He says brusquely, flipping her a coin. “I’ve come to get my sellsword. Has he paid?”

She shakes her head, fingering the coin he’s already given her. He really shouldn’t do this—he’s probably only fueling new rumors about his whoremongering. But he needs to get rid of her, and there’s only one way to get rid of a whore quickly.

“Here.” He hands her another handful of gold, and she’s gone without another word, leaving Tyrion alone with Bronn.

“I was going to yell at you, but I suppose I should thank you.” Bronn pipes up, already standing and lacing his breeches. “Though I’m surprised you’ve seen her. Thought you had a preoccupation with redheads lately.”

Tyrion groans, unwilling to admit the accuracy of his assessment. “I liked you better when your vocabulary was smaller. You didn’t talk so much.”

Bronn slides his doublet on. “Yes, but now you get more of my infinite wisdom. This fancy vocabulary will be the thing to save your marriage. You’ll thank me _then_.”

Tyrion shakes his head, not presently having the will to attempt to argue with _that_ , especially considering that his marriage was precisely the topic he wanted to discuss. “Shut up and come on. You’re buying me a drink.”

\--

“Wait, wait.” Bronn says, gesturing with his half-eaten chicken leg. “She said what?”

“She said _she didn’t mind_ ,” Tyrion says, sipping his wine. “Am I reading into this too much? Perhaps I am. And after, she said she just meant it was alright. She couldn’t really have meant… _that_.”

“No, no,” The sellsword leans forward, eyes glinting. “A lady like yours is well aware of what comes out of her mouth. She knew what she was saying.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” He insists, shaking his head. “She doesn’t want _me_.”

“Sure sounds that way, though, doesn’t it?”

“To be completely fair, I’m probably the only man to ever touch her like that without also wanting to rape her.” Tyrion reasons.

“To be _completely fair_ , Sansa Stark could have any man she wanted fondling those tits of hers.”

“ _Bronn_ ,” Tyrion hisses, looking around to make no one was listening. “Maybe we shouldn’t use the name of the Lady of Winterfell in this context in a _tavern_.”

Bronn munches on his chicken. “I’m right, though. She could walk in the street, pick any fancy knight or lord she wanted to give her the time of her life. But she’s not. She’s flirting with _you_.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it flirting.” He mumbles, looking over at the woman at the bar and raising a hand for another drink.

“She’s been talking to you and only you for the month on the way here—” Tyrion opens his mouth to rebuke, but Bronn shushes him— “And you can’t say that was just because there was no one else to talk to, because now we’re in King’s Landing, and she has a whole _city_ to talk to, but somehow she fell asleep with _you_ in a _library_ in the middle of the night. Wake the fuck up, little man.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Bronn says, taking a long pull from his ale. “She fucking _likes_ you.”

Tyrion wants to keep arguing with him, tell him that it’s impossible, there’s _no_ fucking way Sansa Stark likes a dwarf ( _because there_ is _no fucking way_ ), but the evidence is, in all honestly, starting to build. Because it’s true: she’s been spending an awful lot of time with him. She’d told him she’d decided to not cede from the Seven Kingdoms, to not take a _crown_ , because of him.

_I care about you, and I trust you._

_Any girl you ask to marry you will count themselves lucky._

_I didn’t mind._

Tyrion _somehow_ sets his cup down calmly. “Bronn?”

“Aye?” He says, chewing noisily.

“I think you might be right.”

Bronn grins at him, claps him on the back. “Sweeter words have never been spoken.”

As the other man stands, even as he climbs on top of the table, calls for the attention of the rest of the tavern, Tyrion doesn’t have the presence of mind to stop him, brain whirring too quickly with this discovery. With whatever the hell this even _means_.

Bronn’s saying something in the background, not that Tyrion has even a piece of mindpower to spare to pay attention.

There’s some small speech that Tyrion doesn’t hear, some stomping on the table that ends with their cups spilt on the floor. Bronn whoops a couple of times, and finishes with:

 “—But he’s finally figured it out, folks! His woman loves him!”

There’s an uproar, then, clapping and yelling, and distantly he recognizes that people are talking to him, congratulating him, squeezing his shoulder, buying him drinks. He doesn’t care, though. Can’t, not with the turmoil that he has running through his mind.

Because yes, fine, Sansa Stark may somehow care for him, Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. Maybe she even wants to keep their marriage.

But he knows, knows without a doubt, that she won’t.

Because despite any sentiments she may or may not hold, first and foremost, Sansa is married to her duty.

And her duty is to the North.

\--

Sansa decides to walk the gardens that morning after she’s dressed. Since she’s been here, she typically prefers Tyrion or Daenerys as a walking companion, but now she needs the silence to still her mind—or at least to try to sort it.

She makes little progress. While the calm of the garden does offer a quiet solitude, it doesn’t have enough distractions to properly stop her from berating herself. Because honestly, what _had_ she been thinking?

She realizes that what she’d said hadn’t been false; in fact, it was far from it. Still, though, she’s felt this dangerous… _thing_ build between she and Tyrion for weeks, even if she’d tried to deny it. She’d tried to believe he didn’t want her, that he needed a wife without emotional baggage that he could mold himself to fit Casterly Rock. That he wouldn’t want her anyway.

That argument, however, makes little sense considering what she’s seen. Considering the history between them.

She’s starting to believe Tyrion does, in fact, care for her. She’s known for a long time that he wants her as a man wants a woman—that much had been made physically clear in the cabin during the snowstorm. But that meant nothing—most men wanted her carnally, it’s nothing new. Nothing she hasn’t had to endure since before she even flowered.  

But Tyrion has proven he doesn’t just value her pretty face, her body.

He wants her mind. He wants her to smile at him, tries to make her laugh. He wants to talk to her, wants to know what she has to say.

There’s a reason he talked to her late in the night, brought her wine to talk about the Seven Kingdoms, trade, marriages. A reason he bought her a necklace on a whim in the market.

She’s starting to think it might be because he wants _her_.

This suspicion isn’t completely new; she thinks she’s vaguely considered it for a while but had dismissed it each time it threatened to surface. Had ignored it, had fought against it. There were just too many issues, too many problems with the realization. She can’t give him children. She has the North to take care of. Her _rational_ mind knows that.

Unfortunately, the mind she has directly after waking clearly isn’t really something that could be described as rational.

That’s why she hadn’t pulled away from him. Why she’d actually said, _aloud_ , that she didn’t mind him touching her.

She wishes she could say he hadn’t noticed, had thought nothing of it. But Tyrion is clever, too clever to ignore something so obvious, despite his odd self-loathing tendencies that led towards denying that anyone cared for him. He may have been able to ignore some of the more subtle things that she’s said, or done, but not that. And the look on his face..

If she were a normal woman, she’d be happy she’d finally gotten through his thick skull.

But if he approaches her—

She can’t keep this marriage. She thinks he probably knows that, probably won’t come to her with declarations of love. Tyrion pays attention; he knows she has duties she can’t shirk. He’ll know better than to voice the temptation she thinks they’re both considering.

She sits on a bench next to a hedge covered in flowery, watching some of the ladies of court titter to each other as they stroll. She recognizes a few of them even now, remembers them from her time in court. She’d envied them when she was younger; had wanted their fancy gowns, their beautiful fair hair, had admired their handsome young lords. They were only a few years older, but they’d already had everything she’d ever wanted. They were beautiful, they lived in the Red Keep, took tea with the Queen, were crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by their husbands at tournaments.

She still envies them, but for an entirely different reason.

One lady stops suddenly behind the rest of her companions: the little girl that had been trailing behind them is tugging at her skirts.

“Mama!” The child shouts, hands reaching up. She looks pitiful, with those big eyes, her bottom lip quivering. Sansa knows the trick: Rickon had done it often when he no longer wanted to walk, especially in the first years after he’d been born. Her mother had always told Sansa not to pick him up when he did. Her mother always had, though, every time.

 The woman in the courtyard rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and she acquiesces, lifting the girl into her arms and onto a hip before continuing her walk.

When she was a girl, she’d loved romance novels. Arya had always made fun of her for them, had claimed they weren’t anything like real life, just ask mother and father. Sansa, at the time, had called her a stupid little girl and told her to go away. Arya could have her books about knights slaying dragons; Sansa had much preferred the stories of star-crossed love, a handsome prince falling for a beautiful servant. Destined for each other, but unable to marry.

She’d thought the tragedy of it was part of the beauty of the story, part of the charm. She’d read that particular story at least twenty times.

She can’t say she finds it quite so beautiful now.

\--

Tyrion makes his appointment with the Queen: barely. Bronn had been so busy forcing ale down his throat he’d nearly forgotten she’d invited him to dine with her.

Still, he manages to walk into her solar only a few minutes late.

“Apologies for the tardiness,” He says to the Queen, who’s sitting in front of her meal with a letter in hand. He makes his way to the chair across from her, seating himself. “But place the blame on Bronn. He’s been particularly aggravating today, what with a tavern, and the drinking—”

He stops speaking when he realizes she’s not listening—she’s still staring at the letter, eyes wide, brows furrowed. “Daenerys?”

Her purple eyes dart up to him, and he can read the emotion reflected there easily: the light shine, the bewilderment. It’s shock.

“What is it?” He asks warily, leaning forward.

“I—” She looks down to the letter again, back up at him. Clears her throat. “It’s from Jon.”

Dread builds him, and he starts to worry. There’s only one thing that could possibly cause this reaction, that Jon would bother writing about. Something’s happened to Arya.

“Arya—is she—” He starts to ask, though he’s sure he doesn’t want to know. “Is she—” He doesn’t want this, this _can’t_ be happening. Sansa can’t lose _another_ member of her family. Not again, not now, when she’s about to send Jon away, when she’ll already be alone in Winterfell. He doesn’t know if he has the strength to tell her.

“No, no, not Arya,” Dany says, still staring down at it. “She’s fine. It’s—it’s Bran.”

Relief courses through him, followed immediately by confusion. “Bran?” Tyrion takes the proffered letter from her. “But Bran’s dead.”

“Apparently not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA. Did you see THIS shit coming? 
> 
> Ain't no damn way you did, tbh, because I was subtle as hell about it. But if you reread the first chapter, you'll note that no one SAW him die. They assumed it because a bunch of wights crawled over him. Been planning this shit for a while, yo.
> 
> ALSO please. Dear God. Let me know what y'all think. Because A) I literally thrive off this shit and every time I write a chapter I reread these comments like 'oh, no, if I don't update THIS PERSON might be sad,' and B) I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, and C) it just makes me really really happy to hear from you, okay? So if you're reading this, and are thinking 'damn should I comment I bet she won't care' I DO CARE ALSO I LOVE YOU. 
> 
> Don't have time to comment? Press the 'lil button with the heart on it. it's cute, it personally thanks you, and I, of course, appreciate it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sansa,” He starts, squeezing her hand gently. “Bran’s alive.“
> 
> She stares at him. Bran isn’t alive. Bran can’t be alive. Jon had said, he’d seen it, seen wights pulling him under, crawling over him. They’d grieved him.
> 
> “Letters just arrived from Winterfell,” he continues, “There were two from Jon, one for you and Dany, and one from Bran.”
> 
> “But that’s not possible,” She finally says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all this chapter is a 3700 word monster. And let me tell you- I wrote this in a day. Like, two sittings. That's how much I enjoyed writing this. And y’all know how bad I am about posting- y’all are lucky I’m such a hoe for praise and you got an update in literally two days. So spoiled. 
> 
> But seriously, I really hope you enjoy reading this half as much I did writing it!

When Sansa finishes her walk in the gardens, she goes back to her chambers, intent on finishing the direwolf sigil she’d started on her cloak the day before. She’s contemplating starting one for Jon  (though she suspects he won’t wear it) as she pushes open the door to her chambers.

She jumps when she sees that not only Tyrion, but Daenerys is standing in her solar, waiting on her.

“Oh, good,” Dany says. “Any longer and we were going to go look for you.”

Sansa shuts the door behind her, wary. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Tyrion assures her, taking a step forward. He scrunches his nose. “Okay, well, not nothing, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then what?” She asks again, impatient to hear the news that _must_ be important, considering that they’ve entered her solar unannounced. “Tell me.”

“I think you should sit.” Dany advises gently.

Sansa does, eyeing Tyrion as he walks over in front of her, takes her hands in his.

“Sansa,” He starts, squeezing her hand gently. “Bran’s alive.“

She stares at him. Bran isn’t alive. Bran _can’t_ be alive. Jon had said, he’d seen it, seen wights pulling him under, crawling over him. They’d _grieved_ him.

“Letters just arrived from Winterfell,” he continues, “There were two from Jon, one for you and Dany, and one from Bran.”

“But that’s not possible,” She finally says.

“It’s true,” Daenerys speaks up, and Sansa is made aware of how this looks, Tyrion standing a breath away, clasping her hands.

(She doesn’t care. She’ll keep him as long as she can.)

She shakes her head. “How?”

“Bran wasn’t sure how he survived the wights. Says he woke up next to the heart tree north of the Wall.”

There was never real evidence Bran had died, Sansa remembers. His body was never recovered; they’d assumed it’d been torn apart, or become a wight, risen by the Night King. Jon hadn’t had the heart to keep looking for it when they couldn’t find it after the first day; hadn’t wanted to know what he’d find.

“Jon’s sure? Sure it’s Bran?”

“It’s him, Sansa,” Tyrion says softly. He presses the letters he’d been holding onto her lap. “Jon explains it. Read it.”

She reluctantly releases his hand, opens the letter addressed to her in Jon’s messy scrawl.

_Sansa,_

_I don’t know if you or Daenerys will get this news first, so I’ll tell you both._

_Bran is alive._

_I don’t know how, and he doesn’t seem to either. He says he remembers the battle, remembers everything going to black and the wights overtaking him. He woke up next to the tree where he’d become the Three-Eyed Raven, and then he came home._

_That’s the other news: he’s no longer the Three-Eyed Raven._

_He says he still remembers some things, bits and pieces, but that it’s not all in his head anymore. He tried to explain what happened to me, but you know how I am. From what I’m able to understand, the memories reside in the heart trees now. Bran said it was because the Three-Eyed Raven’s purpose had been fulfilled, what with the death of the Night King and living evil._

_He can walk, too. He said the Old Gods gave his legs back. (But apparently, they won’t give my eye back—I asked about it.)_

_Bran’s still a little odd, of course, but really, it’s like he’s a different person. He reminds me a little of the Bran we knew all those years ago. He likes to ride a lot, and he’s already gone hunting in the two days he’s been home. He’s been training, too, with me and with the guard. He’s good, actually—he says it’s because he remembers how from Ser Arthur Dayne?_

_Still, he doesn’t say as many strange things. He’s not normal, not really, but I think he’s as close to it as we could ever hope._

_We’re eagerly awaiting your return,_

_Jon_

“Gods be good,” Sansa breathes. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive.” Tyrion confirms, smiling.

“I—” She takes a second to wipe the wetness she hadn’t noticed hurrying down her cheek. “This is wonderful news.”

“I’m so happy for you, Sansa.” Tyrion says softly, and she can tell that he means it, really means it, from the lightness dancing in his eyes, the smile that doesn’t look like it’s leaving his face any time soon.

Before she even has the presence of mind to doubt herself, she flings her arms around him and buries her face in his neck.

It takes him a moment, but she feels him hesitantly bringing his hands up to rest on her back, stepping closer to her and resting his head atop hers.

The embrace doesn’t last long; Daenerys is still in the room, and Sansa is well aware this interaction is already well beyond improper.

So she pulls away from him after a second, reluctant as she is to come out of his arms, and opens the second letter: the one from Bran.

She remembers his handwriting: she’d taught him how to make his letters when he was young, had been convinced by her mother to try to help him make cleaner words. It had been hopeless—Bran was far more interested in learning how to jump a horse than calligraphy. Still, the writing it distinct. It’s his.

_Dear Sansa,_

_I miss you very much, especially now that I remember, and I’m very excited to ride with you. Jon says you’re better than me now, though I doubt it._

_I know you’ll probably want to come to Winterfell when you get this news. I want to see you again, too, but don’t come yet. Jon said you had business there: don’t return until you’ve seen to it. I’m sure you won’t want to make the trip back._

_There are three; one fair of hair, with Tully eyes. One looks like a Stark. The last has purple eyes._

_All my love,_

_Bran_

The last words are strange; they remind her of the way he’d spoken the first time he’d returned from north of the Wall. He’d always spoken in riddles; they usually didn’t make sense for a while. Sansa decides not to bother trying to solve it now.

She looks up from the letter. Looks at the Queen, at Tyrion. “Well,” she says, setting it aside. “I suppose we have much to discuss.”

\--

Sansa was right, of course: there _was_ much to discuss.

Bran’s being alive changed some things.

Bran’s being alive and near normal changed _everything_.

“Winterfell isn’t going to Jon, then,” Daenerys says, setting aside some of the papers they’ve drawn up. “It’ll be Bran’s. You don’t think Jon will mind, do you?”

A light laugh escapes Sansa. “The only thing Jon _minds_ is not being by your side. Everything else is purely in the background, I assure you.”

The Queen rolls her eyes, gives a little protest, but the small smile curving her lips says otherwise. “That means it won’t go to you, either, Sansa, when Jon comes to King’s Landing,” she says, “Is that alright?”

Sansa nods, almost absentmindedly, continues to peruse through the papers in front of her.

Honestly, Tyrion has _no idea_ how she’s so calm.

He’d been so confident, earlier, that her duty to the North was the only thing keeping her from him. From mentioning that perhaps they _shouldn’t_ annul their marriage. Was he wrong?

No, he doesn’t think so. And, to be fair, they hadn’t actually had a moment alone yet. They’d gone straight to the Council room to start figuring out the implications of Bran’s return for the Kingdoms.

In his mind, it’s simple: Jon gets to marry Daenerys and Sansa is no longer bound by duty to Winterfell.

 _She’s not thinking about that,_ _Tyrion,_ he chastises himself. _Her brother’s just come back to life, leave her alone._

“And Bran is Warden of the North now, of course,” Dany continues, writing something else down. “And we’ll have to arrange for all of Winterfell’s bannermen to swear fealty. Bran will eventually have to come here, to swear fealty to me. Perhaps in a few months, after he’s adjusted to ruling. What do you think, Sansa?”

Sansa looks up from her work, then, at the sound of her name. “Pardon?”

“Do you think it’ll take long for Bran to adjust to ruling? Was he trained as a child?”

Sansa nods. “He was second in line. He had lessons from the maester with Robb; if he still remembers, he should have little trouble with most things.”

“Would six months’ time be enough?”

“I believe so.”

“Good.”

They stay in the Council room for a while, Tyrion helping Daenerys with the technicalities that come with the change and Sansa answering questions to the best of her ability about how Bran will rule.

Eventually, Sansa excuses herself. Tyrion is sorely tempted to follow her— _sorely_ tempted—but decides not to. She likely needs time to herself, real time, to process the information.

So instead, he spends the rest of the day with Daenerys. By the end, they have papers drawn up, including her official recognition of Brandon Stark as Lord of Winterfell, a new trade agreement with his name, and—perhaps most importantly—nuptial papers.

“You don’t think Jon will mind?” She asks, rereading the agreement yet again.

“Being Hand to the same Queen he married? I somehow doubt it.”

She rolls her eyes and finally takes a seat at the table—they’ve been standing, pacing much of the time. “This crown is his by rights.”

Tyrion sighs, sensing that this conversation will be long and taking a seat at her left side. “I seem to recall him insisting, _multiple times_ , that he had no interest in the crown.”

“I know, I know,” She says, waving a hand in the air. “But what happens if we disagree? The Hand and the Queen, but also husband and wife.” She hesitates, glancing at him. “I don’t want our positions involved in our marriage.”

“You could mention that. Keeping the realm out of your bed. I don’t think he’ll have any objections.” 

“It’s not that simple.”

He shrugs. “I know. But I think the two of you will figure it out anyway.”

She looks over. “You’ve grown wiser since we first met.”

He snorts. “I’d certainly hope so. It’s been… what? Five years?”

“Something like that.” Daenerys turns her chair to face him. “Tell me about you and the Lady Stark.”

He pointedly _doesn’t_ react to that. He thinks, with pride, that he didn’t even flush. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Don’t lie to the Queen. I could have you executed.”

“And lose my wisdom?”

She laughs. “I take it back. You’re still an idiot with women.”

He does flush _then_. “I can name many a woman in this city who’d disagree with that statement.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She’s unfazed by his attempt to scandalize her, as always. “I don’t think she’d turn you down. You should ask to keep her hand.”

He huffs, annoyed at how easily she’s seen through him. “Does _everyone_ in King’s Landing know I want Sansa Stark?”

“Only those who have seen you in a room together,” Dany says, smiling. “Perhaps if you didn’t watch her every move like a lovesick fool, we wouldn’t.”

Tyrion grumbles, shifting in his seat. “I suppose I’ll start avoiding her, then.”

“No, you won’t.”

“No, I certainly won’t.” He agrees begrudgingly.

“Why did you come to get an annulment if you want to keep the marriage?”

“Of course _I_ want to keep the marriage. I’m not at all certain about _her_ thoughts on the matter.”

Daenerys scoffs. “Well, _I_ am. She just _grabbed_ you in her solar, in front of me. Granted, we’re close enough, but—still. She’s always been a very proper sort of Lady.”  

He sighs, running a hand on the rough wood of his chair. “I had thought, perhaps, that she didn’t mention it because she had to run Winterfell.”

“Winterfell?” Daenerys tilts her head. “Jon holds Winterfell.”

“Jon wants to marry _you_ ,” Tyrion points out, “Which would require that he leave Winterfell, leaving Sansa to run the Keep.”

“Oh.” She relaxes in her seat. “But Bran’s alive, which means…”

“Which means that he’s Lord of Winterfell and that she doesn’t have to stay.” He finishes, nodding.

Daenerys just looks confused, now. “But she still won’t marry you?”

“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t had the chance to ask about it.”

“What?” She asks, sitting up straight. “You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

“No,” He admits, sighing.

“Why are you still in here?” The Queen asks, standing. “Go to your wife!”

He obeys.

\--

When there’s a knock at the door, she doesn’t bother calling to tell them to come in, instead going to the door and opening it herself. She looks at her visitor in surprise. “Tyrion.”

He swallows, shifts on his feet. “Sansa. Would you mind if—”

“Yes, please, come in.” She backs away, letting him enter and closing the door behind him.

He automatically goes to the table in the solar, but stops, probably realizing it’s covered in parchment and books. 

“I’m sorry,” She says, going to move papers over. “I was busy today.”

“Yes, I see.”

She gives up trying to move things around—she’s not really making any space—and turns to him. “I know it’s a bit improper, but would you mind sitting in my room? There’s a settee there, and it’s far more comfortable.”  

He nods, and she shows him in.

Once they’re seated, Sansa hurries to find another cup for him, setting it by the decanter. “Wine?” She asks, already pouring.

He takes it. “What if I’d have said no?”

She smiles. “I’d have told you to leave and looked until I’d found where you’d hidden the real Tyrion Lannister.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. I don’t normally turn down a drink.”

She _hmms_ in agreement, takes a sip of her own wine. She’s been worried about this moment ever since she’d processed that Bran is, in fact, alive. Tyrion had known that she couldn’t marry him before, because of her duty to the North, so he hadn’t approached her.

He doesn’t know that she can’t have children.

She really doesn’t want to tell him, but she has a feeling he’ll leave her with no choice.

There’s been a pregnant pause, one that feels uncomfortable—which is odd, for them—she can’t remember the last time she’d felt uncomfortable in conversation with the man sitting beside her.

“The wine is good.” Tyrion says, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” She agrees, “Summerwine. It’s always been my favorite.”

It grows quiet again, as she watches him, as he watches her. There’s clearly something he wants to say, she can see it, but she can also see the nervousness in his eyes. He’s worried.

After a moment, he relaxes, and opens his mouth to speak. She tries to beat him to it.

“Tyrion—”

“Are you—”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says politely. “Go on.”

She’d hoped he’d say “no, you speak,” as he is wont to do, but he doesn’t.

He hesitates, though, takes a deep breath. “I was just wondering how you’re doing. With everything with Bran.”

She lets out a sigh of relief she hadn’t know she’d been holding. “As best as can be expected, I suppose. I’m happy, of course, that he’s back. I don’t know. I suppose I’m a little worried about how this could change things.”

He’s fidgeting with the ring on his thumb, spinning is around his finger with his other hand. “Worried because he’ll have Winterfell?”

“Well, no,” She says, unwilling to lie to him.

“Why, then?”

She frowns. “This will set back Jon’s departure for King’s Landing, of course. And we don’t know anything about how Bran does ruling—he’s not the Three-Eyed Raven any longer, so is he back to where he was? The mind of a ten year old? Or has he matured? The whole situation is just so..."

“Complicated?” Tyrion supplies, sipping his wine.

“I was going to say strange, but yes. Complicated.”

“It is strange,” He says, looking at his cup. “But you Starks have a tendency to stick through the rough patches. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Yes.”

He’s watching her hand, now, as she fiddles with her necklace. She realizes, belatedly, why.

“You wore it?” He asks her, staring at the silver pendant she holds between her fingers.

“I—yes,” She’s blushing, she can tell, and she lets her hand fall to her lap where it twitches, looking for something to hold onto. “I did tell you I liked it.”

He clears his throat and breaks eye contact. “You did. It—it looks good. On you.”

“Thank you.” She says, and there’s another awkward lull. She brings her cup to her lips, then, finishing the last of it. “I need more wine,” She says, and stands to get it, desperate for something to do. Tyrion rises as well, behind her, as he tends to do whenever she stands.

Once she’s poured herself some she sets the cup on the table by the settee, turns to take a seat.

Except—except the edge of carpet underneath has this habit of curling upwards, despite the books she’s piled on it to get it to flatten, and her toe catches and she _slips_.

Somehow—really, she has no idea how she’s had this luck—she falls directly towards Tyrion, and instead of her nose meeting the floor, strong hands catch her waist, arms wind around her before she can slide down.

She stares up at him, eyes wide.

Tyrion shifts gently, lowers her to the settee, firm hands still on her waist.

“I’m so sorry,” She breathes, and their faces are quite close, so close she can feel his light exhale on her lips.

“Quite alright.” He assures her. She thinks, then, definitely then, he’ll part from her, and they’ll pretend it didn’t happen. Like every other time they’ve gotten a little too close, like every other time one of them has grabbed the other’s hand for a moment too long.

He doesn’t move.

Instead, those green eyes bore into hers, and there’s a shiver that runs down her spine, once again feeling as though he’s not looking at her, but _through_ her, and it should make her push him away but she doesn’t want to, she wants to pull him _in_.

Evidently he’s thinking the same, because he leans in a little more, and this time she can _feel_ his lips move, they’re so close to hers, when he asks, “Could I kiss you?”

She’s supposed to say _no_ , there are very compelling reasons she’s supposed to say no, she’s sure. She’s just having a hard time remembering them at the moment, with the way he’s looking at her, with how warm her hands feel on her sides.

So instead of doing the sensible thing and pushing him away, she does the opposite. She winds her hand up his neck, threads her fingers into his hair, and pulls him down to let him cover her mouth with his.

His lips are soft, no longer chapped from the cold, and warm against hers, gentle when they move. She hears him sigh through his nose, softly, and then one of his hands slides up to rest on her shoulder blade, pulling her even closer.

She guides him closer, too, using the hand that isn’t occupied with scrunching his curls to pull his waist to her. He takes it a sign, she guesses, to part his lips, to touch hers with his tongue gently, as if worried he’ll scare her off.

He isn’t going to: she’s enjoying this far too much.

She allows it, parts her own mouth a bit more, and is immediately rewarded when he licks into her, strokes her tongue with his, still gently, always gently, but it’s just so, so _good_ and she wants to return the favor, tries to—clumsily—but he must like it because he steps even closer, until his chest presses against hers. He tastes a little bitter, but sweet, from the wine, when he flicks at the roof of her mouth. She moans, then, a little sound that comes out of her unbidden, and he growls, honestly _growls_ , she can _feel_ it, vibrating his chest, his throat, and somehow he pulls her even tighter against him.

It’s a few more moments of this—of pure, pure bliss—until she has to pull away, urgently reminded of her need for air.

He rests his forehead on hers when she does, panting a little himself, closing his eyes.

And he looks… he looks so _peaceful_ , so _happy_ , that it makes her chest hurt, ache, because she’s abruptly reminded that this is wrong. That this isn’t what she can give him—she can’t give him happiness, not really, because she can’t give him what he wants.

Can’t give him a family.

So she pulls away from him, really pulls away this time, stands. He’s confused, she can tell, and she has to look away when she speaks. “I think you should go. Goodnight, my Lord.”

“I—but Sansa, shouldn’t we—”

“—please, Tyrion,” She interrupts him, still avoiding the hurt gaze she knows is directed at her, “please go.”

He does, and to his credit, he doesn’t slam the door, doesn’t say anything else. He leaves, silently, and then she’s alone.

She strips to her shift and crawls into her bed.

Touches her lips, where his had pressed only moments before.

And then she buries her face in her pillow and sobs well into the night, until she finally falls into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> So.... 
> 
> thoughts? comments? concerns?


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normally, Sansa wakes herself up in the mornings. She sleeps lightly by nature, and usually the sun or a servant outside will wake her. So she tends to wake early anyway. 
> 
> This morning, however, it’s far too early.
> 
> A loud knock is what does it; when she wakes, bleary-eyed, the sun isn’t even up yet.
> 
> She reluctantly gets out of bed and pulls on the dressing gown thrown over a chair, walking to the door. Before she gets the chance to even pull it open, there’s another, more forceful knock.
> 
> “A moment!” She says, glaring at the wood as she fumbles with the ties on her dressing gown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm a lying liar who lies. I tried, I really did, I wanted this to be the last chapter (besides the epilogue, as I'm no pagan), but alas. I started writing and realized that there's just no way in hell, because these two have a lot to say and a lot to resolve. So there will be ONE MORE chapter, then an epilogue, and I swear, it's definitely done after that. Unless I decide to start posting one-shots from it, and I might, because it makes me sad to leave it. 
> 
> But!! This chapter is literally 6000 words long (normally they’re 2000ish), and I think you'll like it. Probably. I did, so.

Normally, Sansa wakes herself up in the mornings. She sleeps lightly by nature, and usually the sun or a servant outside will wake her. So she tends to wake early anyway. 

This morning, however, it’s _far_ too early.

A loud knock is what does it; when she wakes, bleary-eyed, the sun isn’t even up yet.

She reluctantly gets out of bed and pulls on the dressing gown thrown over a chair, walking to the door. Before she gets the chance to even pull it open, there’s another, more forceful knock.

“A moment!” She says, glaring at the wood as she fumbles with the ties on her dressing gown.

She hears an audible _huff_ outside, but otherwise they stop knocking.

When she finally manages to pull the door open, it’s not Tyrion, or a messenger, or Daenerys: it’s _Bronn_.

She stares up at him. “What are you doing here?”

He crosses his arms. “ _I’ve_ come to clean up your mess.”

“My _what_?”

He sighs noisily through his nose. “I believe I need a word, Lady Stark. May I come in?”

She knows Bronn is highly improper from their time together on the road, that he comes from a background that doesn’t place much value on propriety, but even so her nose wrinkles. After all, it’s still dark out and a _man_ is requesting access to a Lady’s chambers. In the Red Keep, where gossip is fed by an accidental brush of the hand while dancing, much less a scandalous meeting in the wee hours of the morning.

Still, she knows what this is about, so she nods slightly, backs away to give him entrance.

“Thank you.” He says, thumbs hooked in his belt as he saunters in, like he was going to come in if she’d allowed it or not.

She shuts the door behind him and wraps the gown around her more tightly as he leans against a wall. “Well?” She prompts when he’s silent.

She doesn’t know what she expects, but it certainly isn’t: “You look awful.”

She gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

He folds his arms again. “Well, not awful. You’re far too pretty to look awful, I suppose. Still,” He says, arching a brow, “’ve seen better.”

Sansa can feel heat rise to her cheeks in anger. “Exactly who do you think you _are_ , coming to _my_ chambers—”

He puts a hand up, interrupting her. “Right. Apologies, my lady. I just meant it looks like you had a rough night.”

Her anger dissipates a little at that. He’s not wrong, she probably _does_ look awful. “It was.” She admits, shifting on her feet.

“Mmhm.” He says, turning and walking to her table, where he unceremoniously begins shifting her papers from a chair. “I’d heard as such.”

“Heard as such?—stop that!” She says, rushing over when he starts putting stacks of new construction contracts on the _floor_ , of all places.

He raises his hands in surrender as she snatches the contracts from his grasp and moves them away. He sits, then, without invitation. “Yes. Your lord husband had me meet him in a tavern last night, you see, quite late.”

Her stomach twists at the mention of Tyrion, and she tries to keep the curiosity out of her voice. “Oh?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Bronn mimics with a laugh, not unkindly. “Yes. He was already well and pissed by the time I got there, but from what I was able to get out of him, something happened between the two of you last night. Am I wrong?”

She doesn’t know quite what to say to that, so she busies herself with making space in the other chair. “I don’t see how that’s your business.” She decides on.

He snorts. “I’ve been watching and hearing all about your incessant pining for each other for well over a month. And _he_ told _me_ , might I remind you.”

“Pining?” She says, rolling her eyes as she finally sits across from him. “That’s certainly not true.”

“Horseshit!” Bronn exclaims, loudly enough that she jumps a little. “Sorry, my Lady. But really. If I had to watch him stare at you longingly for another minute or hear more of ‘she’s far too good for me, Bronn,’ or ‘she doesn’t give a fuck about me, Bronn,’ I swear, I would’ve lost my wits.” 

“I’m not entirely certain you haven’t already,” She mumbles, though his words do strike a chord.

“I’m not either, considering how long I’ve been dealing with the lovesick little fool!”

Her eyes dart to meet his then, quickly, before she looks away. _Lovesick?_ Tyrion was many things, but lovesick certainly wasn’t one of them. Yes, maybe he liked her, enjoyed her as a companion, but _lovesick?_ No.

Her confusion must be palpable because Bronn smiles, leans back in his chair. “Ah, so you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured what out?” She asks, defensively.

“That he’s in love with you.” He says, and the expression on his face is smug enough that she _really_ wants to smack him.

“He is not.” She dismisses quickly, shaking her head.

Bronn laughs. “Oh, Lady Stark, he is.”

“I doubt that very seriously.” She tells him, crossing her arms across her chest. “How would you know?”

“Besides the fact that I have eyes?” He asks, cocking his head. “We could start with last night, I suppose. He mentioned it more than once, you know, in the time when he _wasn’t_ trying to drink himself to death.”

“He—” She swallows. Tyrion? In love with her? Since when? “He said that?”

“Oh, yes. Several times. It was mostly just _‘Bronn, I love her_ so _much,’_ and _‘Bronn, I love her too much to let her leave,’_ but there were a few _‘I’ll die if she won’t have me’_ s as well.’”

“That doesn’t sound like him,” She says doubtfully.

“That doesn’t sound like him _sober_ ,” Bronn points out. “You’ve never seen him that pissed. Hell, _I’ve_ never seen him that pissed.”

That does worry her. It makes sense he’d get drunk after she’d rejected him so harshly—gods, she still can’t believe she’d done that—but still. “Is he alright?” She asks quietly.

He snorts. “No, I don’t think _alright_ is the right word for it. But he’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking. Somehow I got him back here last night, despite his _many_ attempts to escape back to the tavern.”

She swallows, nods.

“Now,” Bronn says, leaning forward, folding his hands together. “I don’t know what the hell you did to him last night, but you fucked him up pretty bad. Care to share?”

When she doesn’t respond, he groans and stands. “Okay, fine. Didn’t think so. I’ll leave you, then, m’lady.”

He makes to leave, turning for the door, and she panics. If he leaves, she may never get this resolved. Tyrion will be heartbroken, will avoid her, will despise her completely. And—though she knows that that might be the best option, really—she doesn’t know that she could stand being _hated_ by him. (She does know. She couldn’t.)

So she stands abruptly. “Wait!”

He stops and turns to look at her.

“I—” She grips her gown and steels herself before she admits to what’s causing her constant inner turmoil. “I kissed him.”

“And?” Bronn prompts.

She looks at the floor, bites her lip, ashamed to say it out loud. “And then I made him leave.”

He exhales slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what’d you do that for?”

Sansa glares at him. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s really not,” He counters. “You love him, he loves you, now you get married and have lots of babies.” 

Her cheeks heat again, but this time it’s worse. An ache creeps into her head, and she fights off the tears threatening to make an appearance. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, can’t, of course you can, just don’t go to the Septon, the world won’t _actually_ fucking end if you find some happiness in this shithole—” He stops before he finishes his sentence, and she knows he’s figured it out. “Oh. You mean you can’t…”

She shakes her head, sniffling a bit. “No.”

“Ah. That _is_ complicated.”

There’s an awkward pause, and she’s sure he must be coming to the same conclusion she is.

 It can’t work.

“Well, have you told him?” He asks instead.

She scowls at him, and he takes it as a no. “You should.”

“Why? Nothing will change.” She insists.

“It could help _him_.” He shoots back, frowning. “Look, I really don’t care about—” He makes a wild gesture with his hands “—whatever the _fuck_ you two have going on, but I do need that man to make it long enough to finish paying his debts to me. He’s a wreck. I think the little fucker would’ve killed himself drinking in that tavern if I didn’t drag him back.”

The doubt must be evident in her eyes—he couldn’t have been quite _that_ upset—because Bronn continues. “You should’ve seen him last night, when he thought you didn’t want him. Wasn’t pretty. He’s going to do something he’ll regret if you don’t at least _tell_ him.”

She wants to avoid that conversation—really, _really_ wants to avoid that conversation, because she knows she’ll end up sobbing in Tyrion’s arms, and he’ll be sad—maybe shed tears of his own, if he cares about her as much as Bronn’s implying—but he’ll leave her by herself, tell her he has to find a woman who can give him heirs, that he’s fond of her but he has to move on now that he knows.

Which, granted, will happen anyway, but this way was going to be _much_ more painless.

That is, until she’d kissed him.

Bronn isn’t wrong—this _is_ her fault. If she were in his shoes, if she were in love with him and then he’d kissed her, only to send him away—yes, she doesn’t think she’d like to live in ignorance, either. Better to know the truth, to have closure.

She resigns herself to the idea. “I’ll talk to him, if you’ll leave me _alone_.”

“Oh, certainly,” Bronn says cheerily, and starts for the door. “I’ll go wake him and send him to you.”

“Wait, no, Bronn—” She starts, but he’s already shut the door behind him.

\--

Tyrion is sleeping wonderfully—so wonderfully, it’s deep and dreamless and consuming and, honestly, perfect—when he’s rudely awoken by a blinding light and blankets being ripped off of him.

“Come on, Lord Lannister!” Bronn’s saying cheerily. “You have things to do, people to see. Up with you!”

Tyrion groans, the light doing terrible things to his head. “What the actual _fuck_?” He swears loudly, voice muffled by the pillow he’s thrown over his head.

It’s yanked away from him. “I think you’ll want to get up for this.”

Tyrion gives up with the pillow and instead buries his face in the bed. “I remember little of last night, but I’m sure even you remember the unimaginable amount of wine I had. I assure you, I don’t want to get up for _anything_.”

“Is that so?” Bronn’s saying, and his tone is _far_ too smug. “Not even your lady wife?”

Tyrion huffs into the mattress, then turns his head slightly to crack an eye open at his sellsword. “Sansa has absolutely _no_ desire to see me. Did I somehow forget to mention that last night?”

Bronn picks up a coin that’s sitting on the side table, eyeing it for a moment before pocketing it. “Did _I_ forget to mention that I’ve gone to see her this morning, and she _does_ want to see you?”

He sits up then—too fast, far too fast, his stomach is rolling—and glares at Bronn. “What did you do?”

Bronn grins. “Saved your marriage. You’re welcome, by the way.” He shakes his head, whistles. “At this rate, Casterly Rock will owe me half its gold by the time you die.”

 “ _Saved my marriage?_ What does that mean?” Tyrion demands, finally attempting to climb off the bed (slowly. This hangover may kill him before his feet touch the floor).

Bronn tosses a shirt at him. “It _means_ your wife wants to speak to you, and I told her you’d show. Now hurry up.”

Tyrion has other questions, other things to say, but before he can, his dinner from the night before threatens to make an appearance, and he brings a hand to his mouth.

Bronn grimaces as Tyrion swallows and rushes to find a chamber pot. “On second thought, no rush. Maybe a bath first.”

\--

Tyrion _does_ have a bath. He’s only sick twice more (which, considering the circumstances, is highly impressive), and after another two hours in bed (really, he can’t stand up without a blinding pain before then) and an herbal tea, he finally gathers the courage to leave his chambers.

(Still, he feels like shit, and climbing the stairs to get to her room is one of the more difficult challenges he’s had in his life.)

He doesn’t give himself any pause when he gets to her door—if he does, he’s certain he’ll flee—and knocks firmly on the wood.

It doesn’t take long before the door slowly opens, and he’s face-to-face with his wife.

Sansa is, of course, the most beautiful woman Tyrion’s ever laid eyes on. He isn’t even just saying that because he’s apparently in love with her—the court had said that about the young woman ever since she showed up at court at a mere fourteen. Had said that her beauty rivalled Cersei’s, would one day surpass it. (Perhaps he’s partial, but Sansa Stark contains more beauty in her pinky than Cersei did in her entire body.)

She’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen—although, he’s thrown by her appearance now: blood-shot eyes, puffy cheeks, and a tired frown. He wants to ask if she’s alright, if he should summon the maester or something, but he refrains. She’d made it abundantly clear the night before she didn’t want his… _attentions_. If she wanted the maester, she could send for him herself. She didn’t need her perverted, much-older, drunken husband smothering her like a worried mother hen.

Instead, he clears his throat and breaks eye contact, instead studying the wood of the door intently. “Bronn said you wanted to speak to me?”

She doesn’t reply audibly, and he’s forced to look at her to see her nod, to see her nervously bite that _fucking_ bottom lip. “Yes. Would you like to come in?”

He nods stiffly and enters when she opens the door the rest of the way, standing back.

It’s awkward for a second when she shuts the door and they’re alone in her solar, with nothing to do but speak to each other. He supposes that’s rather the point, that she couldn’t very well reject him publicly in the gardens without revealing to the world that they’d shared a mind-wrenching kiss the night before.

(Tyrion’s kissed, and been kissed, by many, _many_ women in his lifetime. He’s only been kissed once by Sansa Stark, and he already knows he’d trade _anything_ —his title, his wealth, his soul—for just one more.)

After a moment, she motions towards the now-clean table. “Care to sit?”

“Yes, thank you.” He says, doing so. He thinks she’s going to do the same, sit across from him like she’s done so, so many times before, but instead she remains standing, hands folded behind her back. She can’t stay still, though—he can almost _feel_ the nervous energy radiating off her as she worries her lip with her teeth, sways on her feet. She gives in to the impulse to pace soon enough, in the small area in front of him.

There’s another moment of silence as she does, and he can tell by her stiff shoulders, her darting eyes, that she’s trying to think of the best way to break it to him. To tell him it was a mistake, that they have to get the annulment now, quietly. That he can never tell a soul what’s happened here.

Instead, she blurts: “I have something to tell you. I wasn’t going to, but I think I have to now. So you’ll understand.”

He just keeps looking at her, confused now. There’s a secret that’ll make him understand this?

A lover, perhaps?

She stops pacing and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to—” She hesitates, “—to kiss you last night. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

When he doesn’t reply—though he doubts she expected him to—she continues. “You see, without Bran I at least had Winterfell. I didn’t have to tell you, because you knew how important it was, that we couldn’t work because I had to go back North. But Bran’s back now—and I’m happy about that, I really, really, am—and that doesn’t work anymore. And I see, now, that you deserve the truth.”

“What truth, Sansa?” He finally says, beginning to get impatient. He understands if she doesn’t want him, but he’d much prefer if she’d have the mercy to get it over with. To not make him sit here as she tries to justify herself—it’d be far easier on both of them if she told him she didn’t want him, if he left and they met again for the annulment and then never spoke again.

(He ignores the pang in his heart that always comes with the thought of leaving her.)

She takes another deep breath, but this time she looks away, as if she can’t stand to look him in the eye as she tells him. “I can’t have children.”

Of all the things he’d been expecting to come out of her mouth, _that_ was certainly not one of them.

“What?” He finally manages to get out, staring at her.

She sniffs a little, still avoiding his eyes, trying not to cry as her lips shake. “Even if we both wanted this, we can’t. I can’t give you any heirs.” With that, she finally sits in the opposite chair, burying her face in her hands.

He’s not entirely sure what to think at the information he’s being given. He’s torn between elation—this is decidedly _not_ a rejection, not exactly—and despair for this young, broken woman in front of him. Given the context, he decides to go with both.

He stands, crossing the space between them wordlessly, tugging at her forearm until she puts her arms down enough for her to wrap his arms around her.

She hesitates only a moment before burying her face in his neck and beginning to quietly cry, wetness dampening his shirt, before it turns into full weeping, her body shaking with the intensity as she fights against each sob.

Somehow he’s falling for her again even as his heart is breaking.

He shushes her gently, tightens his hold around her shoulders, presses his lips to the top of her head. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” He tries gently, speaking quietly as he would to a spooked horse. “I’m here, Sansa, I’m here.”

For some reason, that only makes her cry harder.

He lets her for a few more minutes—he doesn’t think she could hear him now, anyway, and he also has a slight suspicion that she’s probably been in need of a good cry for years now.

When it starts to abate a bit, when she’s just clinging to his back, and the tears are falling almost silently, he lifts a hand to the back of her head, stroking her. “I don’t care about heirs,” He says quietly, voice slightly muffled by her hair. “I don’t care about Casterly Rock, I don’t care about Winterfell, or gold, or the Seven Kingdoms.”

He pulls back then, just a little, just enough to look in her red eyes while still keeping her in his arms. “Do you hear me?” He says, grabbing her chin. “I don’t give a fuck about any of that. _None of it,_ ” He says vehemently. “Not if I could have you.”

Her eyes are wide, and she’s staring at him in—in disbelief? As if every other man on this world wouldn’t throw away _everything_ for a moment with her, for a smile touching that mouth, for a brush of her hand, for her eyes lighting up as she laughs, for just an hour walking beside her. As if she’s surprised he wants her.

“But I thought you said you had to have heirs. I thought Daenerys said—” She starts, but he shakes his head, stopping her.

“Daenerys said she’d give it to Bronn if I didn’t have children.” He reminds her. “Let him have it. Solves a problem for me, anyway. No more debt to pay if he owns everything I have.” He tries to smile at her, then, but it falls just as quickly at her watering eyes.

“But you should have children,” She insists, tearing herself away from him, looking at her lap. “You deserve them. You’d be a wonderful father.”

 _That_ he does laugh at. “I have been around two fathers in my life. My own wanted to kill me after birth. My brother was father to children with our _sister_. I think this might be a blessing to the universe, truth be told.”

She shakes her head. “You’re wrong.” She lifts a hand to his face, cupping his jaw, smoothing her thumb over the slight beard he needs to trim. “You’re brave, and gentle, and strong.” She drops her hand to fist in his tunic and rests her forehead on his shoulder. “You’d be incredible, and you deserve it.”

“I really don’t,” He tells her. Because he doesn’t—he deserves nothing, least of all fatherhood. He’s a fucked up little dwarf who’d killed his mother upon entering the world, who’d raped his first wife, who’d killed his lover, and eventually his father. He’s wreaked havoc on anyone who’s ever come close to him, and really, the selfless thing for him to do would be to push Sansa away, to let her out of his life before he corrupted her too.

But he’s always been selfish.

So he takes her hand and rests his chin atop her head, breathing in deeply, memorizing her scent. There’s a silence again—this one far more comfortable that the last, filled with comfort, peace—for a long stretch. Really, he’s loath to break it, but he thinks they have things to discuss, and if they don’t do it now, in the wee hours of the morning, someone’s bound to notice their absence and poke around until they find him in a Lady’s chambers.

So he sighs and squeezes her hand. “You don’t have to tell me, but—” He shuts his eyes, tightens his grip on her hand. “Why can’t you? Have children.”

She stiffens a bit, then, and he regrets asking. He’s about to say so, to tell her to forget it, she can tell him when she wants. But she starts to speak.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of having Ramsey’s child,” She admits, and he’s not sure whether he should be grateful he can’t see her face or not. “But it was becoming more likely, especially with him—with him—” She shudders a little, pauses, and he’s about to tell her again that she doesn’t have to explain— “ _having me_ every night.” She finishes, burrowing her head deeper in his collar. She pauses there, again, and he isn’t sure if it’s because she can’t continue or because she’s ashamed to tell him.

Either way, he decides on a quiet “it’s alright,” into her hair, and fights to tamp down the violent urges surging in him towards a dead man.

She seems to gather her courage then, enough to lean back in her seat to look him in the eyes, to continue. “I had a servant—an old woman, a Stark loyalist. I told her, and she got me moon tea. I had it nearly every day.” She sniffles again. “I knew then, she told me, told me that it meant I probably wouldn’t have children after that. But at the time I didn’t care, I didn’t even think I’d make it out of there _alive_ , really, and I definitely didn’t think I’d ever want to.”

He’s struggling a little to process her explanation (the thought of another man _taking_ her, _using_ her like _chattel_ makes his vision red and mind roar black), but once he does he’s mainly—mainly _confused_.

“So—so _why_ did she say you couldn’t?” He asks carefully.

“The tea,” She says slowly, as if it’s common knowledge. “I had it every day for months.”

“Moon tea?” Tyrion clarifies.

She nods, and he nearly laughs in relief. “Sansa, moon tea couldn’t do that.”

Her brow wrinkles. “It can,” She insists, “She knew, Tyrion, she was old, and she wouldn’t have just _lied_ to me.”

He presses his lips together, having trouble not smiling at the reveal that there was absolutely _nothing_ wrong with his wife.  “I’m sure she wouldn’t have,” He assures her, releasing her hand and rubbing her shoulder instead. “But she was a maid, you said?”

Sansa nods, eyeing him warily.

“So unmarried?”

She shakes her head. “Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with this.”

Tyrion sighs. “That’s an old wives’ tale, Sansa. Told to young girls so they won’t _need_ to take moon tea.”

She still looks a little confused. He’ll have to spell it out. “Every whore in existence regularly takes moon tea,” He tries instead. “Do you know how many whores still have babes out of wedlock?”

Her eyes shine, but he can see realization start to dawn. “A lot?”

He nods. “Quite a lot—even when they take it, sometimes.”

She stares at him, and he can just see the thought run through her head—can see her work through it until the eventual acceptance comes to her eyes. “So I—I could have children?” She eventually says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.

He nods, and this time she doesn’t bury her head in his chest, she grabs him and pulls him to her, tightly enough that he can easily wrap both arms fully around her waist.

There’s no speaking, again, not for a long while, because he is _certainly_ not going to be the one to interrupt this moment, to pull away from a warm Sansa Stark in his arms, small hands wrapped around to his shoulders.

He isn’t, but she is, and he can’t help but feel instantly cold when she pulls away. Her lashes flutter as she studies him. “I suppose now would be a good time to ask if you’d be alright with perhaps _not_ going to see the High Septon next week?” She asks, but she’s smiling at him, and he just gapes at her, because _his_  answer is apparent, has been apparent to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms for a while.

But she wants this? Really wants this, really wants _him,_ for the rest of her life? "You-you want to stay _married_?"

She shifts a little in her seat. "If you'll allow it." 

He laughs a little, in shock, in pure _giddiness_ , and kisses her forehead (because he _can_ ). “I’d certainly consider it.”

She doesn’t even rise to the tease, doesn’t even bother replying, just smiles softly up at him, and he’s once again _sorely_ tempted by the mouth he’d recently decided he’d _die_ to taste again.

He’s quite pleased he doesn’t have to as he tilts his head to capture her lips with his.

This time is different than the first—where the first had been harder, faster, this one is soft, slow. He could stay here, in this moment, exploring the warmth of her mouth forever, and he thinks it’d be worth it, it’d be worth never doing anything else, seeing anything else, ever again.

She must feel the same way (or perhaps she’s still unfamiliar with kissing—he thinks it’s a combination of both), because she seems to be in no rush, moving her mouth gently over his, then pressing smaller kisses to his mouth until she moves in again, until he takes her lips in his and won’t let go, leisurely wrapping a hand in her hair to pull her closer, to drink from her completely.

He’s the first to pull back—likely because he hasn’t taken a breath since it’d began, so taken up in her—breathing harshly, keeping his hand on her neck, her forehead against his, determined not to let her leave _this_ time.

He doesn’t think she’s going to, not this time, not with how intently she’s looking at him, with how comfortable she is sharing the warm air between their open mouths as they pant together. He thinks she’s going to say something then—she makes a face like she’s going to, with her mouth opening slightly and that look in her eyes, but she must decide against it, because resolutely she shakes her head and dives in again, despite the fact that they _definitely_ haven’t had enough time to catch her breath.

Oh, he _really_ loves Sansa Stark.

He was going to try to keep it gentle, easy, but he’s having a hard time now that she’s spread her legs to make room for him, to pull him in so tight against her he can feel the length of her torso pressed against his. Now that she’s letting out those little noises that are driving him absolutely _insane_ , that she’s completely ceded control, letting him _devour_ her mouth, and really, _really_ , he should be going slower, because he’s getting hard now, and if he doesn’t pull away she’ll be able to tell, and he’ll scare her off again.

Despite his reservations, it still takes him far too much time to reign himself in and pull back. When he does they still again, breathing heavy, watching each other quietly. He’s positive he looks like a dumbass—he’s grinning like a fool—but the little smile gracing her lips does anything but to her face, lighting her eyes, making his heart _ache_.

“So you do want to, then?” He asks again, just to make sure. “Stay married. To me.”

She nods, smiling at him widely, her eyes so earnest he can’t even tell himself this has all been an elaborate jest (he’d considered that option several times).

He chuckles a little. “Alright, but if you’re sure, that’s it. Believe me, there will be no escape this time.”

What he’d meant was that now that he had her, there was _no fucking way_ he’d ever let her go. That’s what he meant. But, given the context of the situation, given the reason she could've escaped the last time, he realizes belatedly as she licks her lips, looks away shyly, cheeks reddening, that perhaps that wasn’t the _best_ thing to say.

“That is,” He rushes to clarify, “I’d just prefer if we _kept_ the marriage this time. I don’t mean that you’d have to—that we would—” He huffs, frustrated with himself for not being able to place the right words, and decides just to have out with it. By now, he’s sure she’s figured out his silver tongue is useless in her presence. “That is to say, I’d be pleased with you, just _you_ , even if you never wanted to consummate the marriage. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

She’s blushing now, _really_ blushing, and not meeting his eyes. To be fair, he doesn’t blame her, after that absolutely travesty of a statement.

She swallows lightly, lips parted. “No, I can’t go through that again.”

For a second, for a pure (rational) second, he resigns himself to never having sex again. It’s a sad second, true, but he’s sure he’ll be able to make do with his own hand, if he can still steal kisses from Sansa Stark.

(He’s _married_. To _Sansa fucking Stark_.)

“That’s quite alright,” He tries to reassure her, holding her hand. “I’ll be more than happy with your companionship alone.”

She looks at him, brows creased, before she shakes her head and releases him, which he takes as a cue to back away, give her space, watching her fold her hands on the table matter-of-factly. “No. I mean I won’t live with a sham of a marriage again.”

He’s certainly gaping at her now, he can tell, and his throat closes before he can get any words out.  

“So…” He tries to begin, calmly. “So you mean to say…”

She nods. “It should be consummated.”

His mind is taking far too long to catch up with his ears, at this point, what with the alarming number of sex-related thoughts filtering through beside all the various love confessions he’s considered at one point or another. Fortunately, he thinks she might be able to tell that he’s a bit slow at the moment, and she just waits patiently in her chair, expectant.

He clears his throat. “Of course. If you wish it.”

And there’s another prolonged silence—he doesn’t know about what’s going through her mind, but he’s going mad—before she speaks again. She looks nervous.

“Maybe—maybe you could come tonight? An hour past dusk?”

He nearly chokes. _Tonight?_ When she’d said she wanted to consummate, he’d assumed she’d meant _later_. Much later. After they figured all _this_ out, after they broke the news to the rest of the world and got used to the idea.

Though, he reflects as he stares at her, they’ve been married for years. They’re probably as _acquainted_ with each other as any person could be with another.

He certainly doesn’t want to think he has any objections, so he nods vehemently until he realizes how quickly he’s nodding and controls himself. He has _got_ to learn some kind of self-control around her, really. “Tonight.” He echoes.

He realizes, then, that this is a dismissal. He’s fine with it—his hangover hasn’t actually abated, yet, just been ignored, so he wouldn’t mind a few more hours of sleep—and he has a feeling Sansa has other things to do.

Still, there’s something else he has to say. He’s not sure what, exactly, and he’s wracking his mind for it, but there’s something he needs to tell her before he leaves this room.

When he finally does remember, he grimaces. “Ah—Sansa. There’s something you should know.”

She arches a perfect brow (he admires it as she does—he’s never seen a woman with such defined eyebrows), prompting him to continue.

“I—” He stops before he rushes into it, hoping to come up with a good way to tell her a whore had nearly sucked him off only days before. He fails.

He twists his hands nervously and sits down again, across from her. “I’ve been avoiding… paid company, for a while. You probably know.”

She reddens, but nods.

Of _course_ she knows. Somehow the girl seems to know _everyone’s_ business in the Seven Kingdoms, despite living on the edge of civilization.

He smiles nervously, but it quickly drops into a frown. “You see—” He swallows and looks away from her. “I may have—”

She stops him with a single hand in the air. She’s looking at him with almost… _understanding_ , and gods, he hates himself for being selfish enough to keep _this_ woman as his wife. “You’ve had such company recently?” She asks.

Heat rises to his cheek—he’s going to have to explain this, _aloud_ , to _Sansa_. “Sort of. There wasn’t actually… I didn’t—” He can’t exactly say _fuck her_ , can he?  “It wasn’t the _normal_ activity men pay for.”

Now she just looks curious _and_ confused, may the Seven _damn_ him, he doesn’t want to talk to his beautiful wife, who he’s now certain he’s wildly in love with, about some _whore_.

“What?”

He clears his throat and looks away from her. “She—she just used her _mouth_ ,” he mumbles. “I didn’t actually—you know.”

“Have her,” She supplies, unhelpfully.

He chances a glance at her. She doesn’t look angry… just resigned. Embarrassed. “Yes.”

“Last night?” She asks carefully.

“What—no!” He shakes his head. “Gods be damned, woman, I _certainly_ haven’t touched anyone since I found out about Bran.”

“ _Oh_.” She blushes. “Well, I understand. It’s alright—I know men have…” She hesitates. “ _needs_ that they have to satisfy when they’re unmarried.”

He sighs. She’s not placing any blame on him, and for some reason that feels worse than screaming. “ _Everyone_ has needs, Sansa. I’ve just never attempted to control mine. For that, I’m sorry. I assure you, that will never happen again.”

“It will certainly not.” She agrees, and her words are firm. “You swear it?”

“On my life,” He replies immediately, and he means it. Because he knows it’ll never be considered again. It would be like trading gold for sand—idiotic. Not even something to think about. He’s been accused of being many things, but idiotic has never been one of them.

She seems satisfied with that response. “Then I suppose I should write Jon this morning. You’ll speak to Daenerys?”

He knows she’d already said she wanted to stay with him, to get married (stay married), that the evidence that she does, in fact, care for him has built up considerably, but the mention of spreading this information, of making this official, shocks him a little. This is real. It’s happening, really, truly _happening_.

He doesn’t have to tell her goodbye at all. She’s staying, with him, going _home_ with him, he’s going to spend his _life_ with her at Casterly Rock. He _will_ get to see her in his bed, he’ll get to wake up to her in the mornings, and one day he could have _children_. With _her_.

She looks at him oddly. “What is it?”

He realizes he’s grinning like a mind-numbed fool. “Sorry,” He says, shaking his head, and giving in to the urge to stand and take her hand again. Because there’s certainly nothing stopping him now. “I’m just very, very happy.”  

She smiles, and it’s soft, touching the corners of her lips gently. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...? How we doing?


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's almost giddy as he leaves the Tower (though he does wince at the sunlight—his aching head is having a difficult time of it), but his mind can’t help but race at the thought of returning to Sansa. They’re to dine together that night, and then… and then.
> 
> He’s not completely sure why she’d decided to consummate their marriage tonight. He certainly has no qualms about it, but he’s surprised Sansa is so ready, considering her past. He doesn’t think it’s because she wants him desperately, not as he wants her, considering her going on about how men have needs. He knows she’s never found pleasure in a marriage bed—perhaps she doesn’t think this will be different. Perhaps she doesn’t know it could be, with a man.
> 
> He hates himself a little for it, but he can’t help but feel a primal eagerness, to be the first in her bed to show her enjoyment, to teach her.
> 
> (He’s also nervous. Very, very nervous.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm... hi. 
> 
> A few things: 
> 
> First, I've given up on appropriate word counts. This fucker is 9,000 words, and honestly, I don't even feel bad. 
> 
> Second, this is smut. Like, so much smut. I didn't think I was even capable of writing this, tbh, and it's either a masterpiece or a long-ass stinking pile of trash, and I don't think there's any in between. 
> 
> (Like, seriously. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, and I don’t know what just happened. I blacked out a little.)
> 
> Third, holy shit, I actually did this, this is a thing that I wrote and posted on the internet, wow.

When Tyrion finally leaves Sansa’s chambers (she ended up kissing him goodbye, and he’s a little surprised his chest didn’t explode), he makes his way to the throne room, where Daenerys tends to go to work after she breaks her fast. Usually she’s alone—she doesn’t hear petitions until later in the day, closer to noon, and her conversations with her council are usually reserved for schedule meeting times.

He's verging on gleeful as he leaves the Tower (though he does wince at the sunlight—his aching head is having a difficult time of it), but his mind can’t help but race at the thought of returning to Sansa. They’re to dine together that night, and then… and _then_.

He’s not completely sure why she’d decided to consummate their marriage tonight. He certainly has no qualms about it, but he’s surprised Sansa is so ready, considering her past. He doesn’t think it’s because she wants him desperately, not as he wants her, considering her going on about how _men have needs_. He knows she hasn't found pleasure in a marriage bed—perhaps she doesn’t think this will be different. Perhaps she doesn’t know it _could_ be, with a man.

He hates himself a little for it, but he can’t help but feel a primal eagerness, to be the first in her bed to show her enjoyment from another person, to teach her.

(He’s also nervous. Very, _very_ nervous.)

As expected, when he finally makes it to the throne room, he finds Daenerys there, sitting on the steps and reading a piece of parchment while stroking Drogon’s head. The dragon is almost purring, grumbling deep in his throat.

To most men, the sight would be terrifying. Tyrion isn’t completely used to it—it is a dragon, after all—but he’d become somewhat acquainted with Drogon during the War. Not close, like Daenerys, but at one point he’d been the one delivering his breakfasts of goats. Drogon’s liked him ever since.

As he approaches, Daenerys looks up and Drogon cracks open a closed eyelid. “Tyrion,” She says, surprised. “It’s rather early for you to be awake.”

“It is,” He admits, coming to sit beside her. “Believe me, I’m going back to bed after this conversation.”

She chuckles. “I’d heard you had quite the night last night.”

He winces. His hangover is still making him quite aware of that fact, and he has a feeling it will continue to do so until mid-afternoon. “Something like that.”

She smiles lightly, amused. “Have you sorted things out with your wife yet?”

It’s his turn to grin. “Quite.”

She _hmms_. “So there's a Lady Lannister now, then?”

He shrugs. “If we're being technical about it, he’s been Lady Lannister for years.”

Drogon makes a slight noise, shifting his head a little, and Dany raises a hand to his snout to quiet him. “I’m glad,” She declares “For you and Sansa. And for the heir, which I assume will come soon?” She crooks a brow at him.

He rolls his eyes. “You sound like my father. But yes-gods be good, you'll have a Lannister heir." 

She smiles, satisfied. “Good. I _really_ didn’t want to give it to Bronn.” She strokes Drogon again. “I still need to find a wife for him, don’t I?”

“About that…”

\--

Sansa’s giddy.

 _Giddy_.

It’s a strange emotion for her age, she thinks; she hasn’t been this happy since she was a girl, gifted with a direwolf pup. But she is, truly: she just can’t stop smiling, and she’s sure she looks like a fool, grinning to herself when her maid finally brings in her breakfast, when she asks a servant for new ink. She can’t bring herself to care, though. She’s just discovered that not only can she have children, have a family, but that she’ll get to move to Casterly Rock. She’ll get to live with _Tyrion_.

Really, this solves everything, she thinks, humming to herself as she rolls out some parchment for her letter to Jon. She hadn’t hated Winterfell, could never, but she’s been a little unsettled by it. Always had nightmares, ever since Ramsay. Always been lonely.

But now… _now_. She’ll be the Lady of a great House, still, and she’s confident Tyrion will want her help running the keep, which is certainly something she’ll enjoy. She’ll be able to sleep in peace, without ghosts haunting every corner, every room.

And she’ll have _him_.

She doesn’t know if she’s really _in love_ with Tyrion yet. Though, to be absolutely fair, she has no idea what love is. Her mother had tried to tell her that, all those years ago when she’d declared that she was wildly in love with Joffrey, wanted to be his queen, bear his children. Had tried to explain it, tried to tell her she didn’t _know_ love yet, that love took time to take root and grow, that it wasn’t a flight of fancy.

She hadn’t listened, of course, being a fanciful little girl who thought romance and handsome knights were the only things of real consequence in the world. Her mother had shook her head, told her she’d learn.

Sansa hasn’t yearned for her mother, really missed her, in years. But now, she’d do anything to speak to her again. To ask about how to be a wife, how to run a keep alongside a husband. Ask her about love.

Ask her about the marriage bed.

Because, in truth, Sansa knows nothing. She knows only what Ramsay had given her: pain.

She had had _some_ lessons, of course. Her mother had told her before she went to the capital a little of it: you lay with only your husband, after you’re married. That it could be wonderful, if you cared for him. That the act gave you children.

Her mother hadn’t felt the need to give details at the time, when Sansa hadn’t even flowered. It was only after she had, in the capital, that her septa had sat her down, dryly explained the basics, that on your wedding night you stripped, laid on the bed, and the man put himself inside you. You laid still until he was finished. She had then gone into details about how to ensure pregnancy: not moving afterwards, placing a pillow under the hips.

All in all, Sansa has little information about what’s _supposed_ to happen. She’s heard whispers, of course, heard bawdy stories across tables, from drunken men. She thinks some women enjoy it, too, but she thinks they’re either loose or whores. But perhaps not: she’d heard men speak of their wives in such a manner, too.

She just _doesn’t know_.

Usually, when she doesn’t know something she finds a book on it, does some research. But there are no such books; she’s certain if there were, she’d have found one by now. She really _hates_ not knowing, hates going into a situation without understanding it. Without being prepared.

She’d ask someone, perhaps Daenerys, but, stupidly, she’d told Tyrion to meet her tonight. She hadn’t been thinking, really: she’d only wanted to make him _hers_ , to make sure their marriage wasn’t questioned again. To do her duty by him, perhaps give him pleasure. She’s fairly certain she could do that, at least: she hadn’t had to do anything at all to Ramsay, just lain still. 

But now, there’s just no time. Daenerys is the only other woman Sansa could ask, and she’s scheduled with petitions for much of the day, and Small Council for the rest.

She sighs, resigning herself to waiting until that night to find out, and finally starts on her letter.

_Jon,_

_I’m sure this may come as a surprise, but Tyrion and I have decided not to annul our marriage._

_With Bran’s return, I am no longer required in Winterfell, as he will take the Lordship. I think I’ll be very happy in Casterly Rock; I’ve heard tales of how beautiful and vibrant Lannisport is, and I care very much for Tyrion. He’s kind and treats me very well, and I’m certain I’ll have a place by his side in the keep._

_I know you’ve done your best to make me happy in the past months. You have my gratitude, and you should know that Winterfell will always hold a place in my heart. I am a Lannister now, it’s true, but I was first a Stark. I will not forget._

_I will visit soon, of course, to see Bran. We haven’t worked out the details of when we’ll return to Winterfell, but I’ll send another raven before we do._

_Daenerys said she’d written you when I did concerning Bran’s transition to Lord, but I’d wondered about whether she’d written concerning a potential betrothal. She keeps things rather close to her chest, and as your loving sister, I’d like to be updated should you make any major decisions._

_All my love,_

_Sansa_

She reads her words again, rereads them a few more times before sealing the letter. She’ll write another, of course, with more details concerning she and Tyrion. Jon is sure to have many questions. This letter, however, is sure to be read by the maester at the very least, before the news of their marriage spreads.

She calls for a servant to take the letter and to bring her midday meal.

 _An hour after dusk_ , she reminds herself. _You have until an hour after dusk_.

\--

Tyrion sleeps several hours after he speaks to Daenerys, past the midday meal. By the time he wakes up, his head has improved significantly and the light filtering in his windows doesn’t make him wince.

He has one other thing to do today: Dany had told him to inform Bronn of her choice of wife. Bronn has the option to refuse, of course, though Tyrion knows he won’t.

It doesn’t take long to ask around the castle about his sellsword. He’s training in the yard with the knights (or _training_ the knights. It’s always difficult to tell), as he usually does in the afternoon.

It doesn’t take much for Tyrion to catch his eye, and Bronn nods and strikes down his sparring partner in a few quick moves before he walks over.

The other man removes his helmet and wipes his brow, studying him. “Hello, m’lord. Feeling better after your talk with the Lady Sansa?”

This isn’t what he’s here for, but Tyrion can’t help but smile. “Much better. Thank you, Bronn.”

Bronn squints. “Got past the barren belly, then? I figured as much. Too pretty a thing to pass by, babes or no.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “We had a discussion, and she’s not barren. We’re no longer annulling the marriage.”

Bronn grins. “Only took two months. _Cleverest man alive_ , my arse.” He pauses. “So you _can_ name a wretch or two after me. You _have_ to now, you know. I’ll be the very reason they exist.”

“I do not,” Tyrion retorts. “Besides, that’s not what I’m here about. The queen has decided on your wife.”

“Oh?” Bronn perks up. “Did you put in a good word for me?”

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion says, waving his hand. “You’ll have the pretty Tyrell girl you were after.”

Bronn whoops rather loudly, causing a short silence in the field and a bit of staring before sparring resumes.

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Her father has a sizeable castle, of course, and she’s currently second in line for the Reach. The heir, as you know, is rather sickly.”

Bronn laughs. “Oh, I know all about it. I’m as good as Lord Paramount of the Reach now, aren’t I?”

“Since when did you learn formal titles?”

“Since I decided I’d be addressed by them.” The sellsword shoots back. “When are we to be wed?”

“I suppose as quickly as she can reach King’s Landing. Her grace has already sent the raven.” Tyrion replies.

“Well then,” Bronn says, putting his helmet on. “Looks like there _is_ a reason I kept you alive.”

\--

Tyrion has never been this nervous in his _life_.

He doesn’t think that’s an over exaggeration, either: even when he was captured by Catelyn Stark, even when his father sent him into battle, even at the battle of the Blackwater, even when he charged _the Night King;_ he’s certain he wasn’t this nervous.

It’s an hour before he’s supposed to arrive to dine with her in his solar, and he’s been pacing a hole into the floor for the past half hour. He’s already had servants dress him two different times, just to make sure he looked his best. He wears his softest trousers, a smooth leather doublet. He’d even briefly considered taking another bath—though he’d literally just taken one only hours before.

Everything has to be _perfect_.

 _She’s_ perfect, he rationalizes. And he is decidedly _not_ , and for some reason she doesn’t mind that, but he doesn’t want to make it even more obvious than it already is.

So he’d changed his clothes, trimmed his beard, combed his hair (more than once). Really, the only things left are his height and the scar sliced across his face. Unfortunately he can do little for either of those.

So, he waits.

He thinks, too, probably too much, about _after_ dinner. About what he needs to do, how to do it, whether he _should_ do it. Reminds himself to keep himself in check, to not go too fast. To be respectful, gentle, to not lose himself in her.

By the time he makes it to her chambers and knocks on the door, he’s a bit of an anxious wreck, and he takes a second to breathe deeply and calm himself before she opens the door.

“My lady,” He greets her, stepping forward.

“I _really_ think the time for all that is gone, don’t you?” She teases as he passes her, but her smile is a bit too fast, her eyes nervous.

He relaxes a bit. At least he isn’t the _only_ one worried out of his mind.

“You’re quite right. Sansa,” He adds, darting a glance at her as he walks to his seat, where his meal has already been laid out.

She seats herself and he copies her, smoothing his hands over the arms of his chair, reflexively gripping them.

Sansa’s eyes follow the movement. “It’s mutton,” She says suddenly.

“Oh, good,” He says, trying to sound pleased, like he cares, and starts to eat. Normally he would—he quite likes this dish.

 

“And lemon cakes.” She adds, slicing into the meat. “They’ll bring them in soon, they said.”

He glances up from his plate at her. She’s still cutting her food precisely, quickly. Her hands shake a little.

He brings his napkin to his mouth, dabbing gently before setting it down. “We have incredible lemon cakes at the Rock.” He says, trying to change the subject. He sounds like a fool.

 “Oh?” She asks, seeing the words for what they are and humoring him.

He nods. “We have a grove of lemon trees in the gardens, so the cooks serve the cakes fresh. They’re almost as delicious as the ones you find in Dorne.”

She finally sets her knife down and reaches for her fork. “I’ll definitely try them, then.”

They haven’t talked, really, about what happens next. He resolves to change that, finishing his meat off and setting his silver down. “You’ll like Casterly Rock, I think.”

She stops eating to smile at him, softly. “I think so, too,” She hesitates, before softly requesting: “Tell me about it?”

“It’s beautiful,” He tells her, leaning back in his seat. “The Rock is well-kept, of course, and it’s huge. Our chambers are as big as the Queen’s. And the library!” He sighs. “I hated my father until he breathed his last, but he did leave an incredible library.”

“How big?” Sansa asks, leaning forward, interest piqued.

He can’t help but grin at her eagerness. “As big as the throne room.”

Her eyes widen. “How many books?”

“Hundreds of thousands, probably,” He says, shrugging. “I read constantly until I could leave for King’s Landing, and I never made much of a dent.”

“You’ll suggest some for me,” She declares, plate abandoned. “What about Lannisport?”

“Gorgeous. Well-maintained, well-funded. Like any city, it has its downfalls, but it has nearly as much to offer as King’s Landing. Smells less, too.” 

Sansa _hmms_ thoughtfully. “Is it true that you can smell the sea there?”

The servant comes in, then, bringing the lemon cakes, and he leans back as they’re placed on the table. “From miles away. It’s wonderful.”

Sansa takes a cake, looking at it thoughtfully as she tears off a piece. “I read the water tastes of salt.”

“It does,” He confirms, taking a cake himself. “I’ve swallowed quite a lot of it.”

 “When you were swimming?” She guesses.

He nods.

Her brows crinkle. “I don’t think I’ve ever been swimming before.”

“Really?” He asks, a little surprised. “Don’t you have rivers or something?”

“It’s freezing.” She reminds him.

“Ah, I suppose it is.” He fiddles with his ring. “Well, I’ll have to teach you.  I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly enough.”

She scoffs a little, smiling. “I don’t think I’d like to get in the water now. Winter is here.” 

“But it’s warm,” He protests, leaning back in his seat. “Much warmer than your freezing North. Our fruits will grow a year into the winter, and you can swim in the water just as long.”

She looks doubtful. “I suppose I’ll have to feel it for myself.”

“You will.” He promises.

It grows silent, then, and he becomes hyper-aware of the reason he’s there. Of how dark it’s gotten in her solar, with the sun down and the candles the only light.

Of their empty plates.

He’s about to start a new vein of conversation to fill the gaping quiet, perhaps tell her about what she’ll do at the Rock (though she already knows well enough how to be a lady of a household), when she pushes her chair back a little, the noise deafening in the silence.

She blushes at the sound, then clears her throat. “Would you like to move to my chambers?”

He hurries to copy the movement, standing. “I—ahem—yes, my lady. Sansa. Yes.”

She stands then, turns and walks towards her door, and he follows her in, heart racing.

She doesn’t immediately do anything—thank the Seven—but does go to the flagon of wine sitting on the table by her settee. “Would you like some?”

He nearly sighs aloud in relief. He _really_ needs to calm down. “Yes, please.”

Sansa pours them each a full cup, and he takes it gratefully, sitting beside her on the settee. Again, they don’t break the weighted silence, each drinking a cup before she gets the flagon again, wordlessly, and refills the cups.

He had had a single glass before he’d come, to calm his nerves, and he’s grateful for it and the one he’s just had. They’re doing wonders for his racing heart, and he can feel himself slow a little. Start to relax, stop worrying. 

Sansa still looks a little tense, though less than before. She drinks the second cup more quickly than he, letting the last half go smoothly down her throat in one go. He sips, watching her as she turns, sets the cup down. Smooths her skirts and then folds her hands primly on her lap.

He resolves to be merciful, setting his cup down beside hers, then sliding closer to her and taking her hand.

She glances over at him, biting her lip, and he had _planned_ on saying something nice, perhaps about how nice she looked in this dress or how lovely it had been dining with her, but her face is so _close_ to his and she's so, so beautiful, and those frosty blue eyes are darting down to his mouth and he just _can’t_.

He surges forward to meet her lips, bringing a hand up to her cheek to hold her steady, and she squeaks, honestly, _squeaks_ in surprise for a split second before melting into him, hands resting on his chest as she lets him kiss her.

 _She’s caught on quickly,_ he thinks to himself as she parts her lips, slips her tongue in to trace his. She smells so sweet, too, he realizes as he keeps kissing her, her mouth so warm, so soft against his. Has she always smelled so sweet?

 _Probably,_ He decides, letting a hand fall to her waist. _You just haven’t been close enough to tell._

 _That’s_ certainly going to change now.

She breaks away for a second, probably to breathe, and he takes the opportunity to pepper smaller kisses to her cheek, her jaw. _Her face really is remarkably soft._

She sighs a little when he lingers on a spot at the corner of her jaw, hand tightening in his hair, pressing him closer. He pulls her to him, too, presses one more open-mouthed kiss to her jaw before he suckles it. She moans then, _moans_ , and the sound shoots straight to his groin.

He breaks away from her, then, panting, to meet her eyes with his.

She doesn’t break from his gaze for a long moment, and he’s glad, so very glad, because she’s so beautiful in this moment, hair mussed, cheeks red, panting, and he has to take a second to study her, to memorize this moment in his head so that he can take it out to treasure later.

When she finally does, it’s to stand. Make her way over to the side of the bed.

“What are you—” He starts, but coherent thought flies away when she reaches down her dress and starts on the ties.

He doesn’t say anything, then, loathe to interrupt, loathe to stop her from letting him see something he’s wanted for so. _long_.

When it falls, though, and she reaches for her shift, his brain catches up with him, and he’s brought back to years ago, when he stood here, and she there, forced to do something she still couldn’t quite understand, something she didn’t want, for duty.

“Wait,” He says, and she does, watching as he walks to her. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Not for me.”

Her eyes don't leave his as she kneels in front of him until they’re level. “This isn’t for you,” She says. “This is for me. I need this, I need to know that you’re mine. That this is real.”

He swallows. He knows that explanation is likely enough, that any other man would decide here that chivalry has gone as far as it can go. But he’s not any other man: he’s a dwarf. This woman has agreed to marry him, it’s true, but that alone is far more than he deserves, and he knows it.

“But if you don’t want to, yet,” He tries, “You should know that the knowledge of what happens in this room won’t come from me. I’m more than willing to say whatever you like.”

She purses her lips, and for a long second, she doesn’t say anything, and he grows more and more certain that she’ll take him up on his offer.  “Tyrion,” She says softly, “do _you_ want to bed me?”

 _Fuck_.

“More than anything,” He confesses.

She releases his hand ( _when had he grabbed her hand?_ ) and moves hers to the top of his doublet. Begins loosening the ties. “Then I think you should help me with this.”

He doesn’t need further prompting, helping her with the laces, sliding out of the undershirt, toeing off his shoes, his socks, until he’s standing in front of her in only his trousers.

He’d stopped being self-conscious about his body years ago. He is what he is, and there was never any reason to worry so much about something he couldn’t change. Now, though, with his young, beautiful wife before him, biting her lip, running a gentle hand over his torso, he can’t help but flush a little. Let a bit of worry seep in. 

After all, he is no Knight of Flowers.

With bated breath, he waits on her to speak, to say something, _anything_.

She doesn’t, though. To his surprise, she’s silent. She doesn’t try to reassure him with coated words or false praise. Instead, she looks up at him, meeting his gaze as she leans forward and lets her lips meet the skin of his chest.

He hisses a little at the contact, burying a hand in her hair, and she continues, pressing kiss after kiss to his chest, his shoulders. They’re soft, innocent; there’s no licking, no love bites as she makes her way back up to his face. Just gentle open-mouthed kisses, silent, warm, slow. 

Somehow, they're breaking him even more. 

 As she takes his face in her hands and presses a final kiss there, firm, chaste, Tyrion shudders, emotion overtaking him, filling him, because this is _Sansa_ , who he’s known for years, since she was fighting to survive in this very place, _Sansa_ , who has always been too clever for her own good, _Sansa_ , who’s so gentle, so good. She’s here, with him, and it’s not because she _has_ to, because she has a duty, because she’s being threatened or pushed. She’s here because she _wants_ to be, because she cares about him, not just his money, his titles, his land, _him_. She wants _him_. 

She doesn’t comment on the wet shine in his eyes when she pulls back, instead soothing a thumb over his cheek. He takes her by the shoulders then, wraps her in his arms, pulls her tight to him. Holds her, for just a moment, because for some reason this is far, _far_ more than he expected.

She's happy enough to relax into his hold, soft cheek resting on his bare shoulder, warm hands around his waist. And there, holding her, he's almost convinced it's a dream. Because this is happening, to _him_ , of all men, and he's just so happy, so overcome with joy, that he needs a second to take it in.  

When he releases her Sansa slowly stands again, goes to the bedside. She gives him a final look, bites her lip one more time, and then reaches up to her collar. Loosens a button.

Lets her shift fall to the floor.

He nearly chokes, just at the _sight_ of her.

She’s nervous, it’s obvious, just from the way her hands twitch, as if wanting to cover herself, but she doesn’t, keeping them still, waiting as he takes her in.

And she is _something_ to take in.

Her figure has always been obvious, it’s true; any idiot could tell that Sansa was slim, that she had rounded hips, a narrow waist, generous tits.

But to _see_ it? With his own eyes?

He had glimpsed her once before, of course, when he’d had to take her clothes off so she didn’t freeze to death. He had, however, been so concerned about the _death_ part of the situation that he had given himself no time to look at all; he’d just thrown furs on her at the time.

But now there’s no howling winds, no worry for danger, and he gets to _look_.

She’s _gorgeous_. Her smallclothes do nothing to conceal her long legs, smooth, orange and red in the firelight, the gentle slope of the curve at her waist. And they really, _really_ do nothing for her breasts, which sit high on her chest, pink-tipped, and even from his position several feet away, he knows, just _knows_ , they must be so, _so_ soft.

And he knows that perhaps thinking of other women now, in this moment, isn't ideal, but all he can think is that of all the women he's seen in his life, every whore, every lady, every queen: not one could ever compare to Sansa Stark.  

If he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now, straining against his breeches so hard it actually _hurts_.

He’s gaping at her, he realizes as she shifts on her feet, waiting on him to do something, and he abruptly shuts his (now-dry) mouth, approaching her slowly. She lets him take her hand, meets his stare.

“Sansa?”

“Yes?” She breathes softly.

“You’re never wearing clothes again.”

She reddens even more at his words, but she stops fidgeting and manages a smile. “I don’t think that would be very practical.”

“Oh, I disagree.” He says, and before he can lose his nerve, he gets on her bed.

She follows, slipping under the sheets beside him, taking a moment to arrange herself before she turns to face him. She’s about to say something, he thinks, when she parts her lips a little, but before she does she stops herself, twisting a sheet in her hand.

“What is it?” He prompts her, propping his head up on his elbow.

She hesitates. “I—I don’t really know what to do. I haven’t really—you know, it was only ever _him_ , and I don’t know anything besides that, so you might have to—to help me. Tell me what to do.”

Her words, her demeanor, is so endearing his heart melts a little and his mouth tugs into a smile without his permission. “Of course. Don’t worry about that, alright? It'll be alright. Just—just relax,” He tells her, giving into the urge to stroke her cheek.

She does, a little, dissolving under his touch, leaning into him. He keeps stroking her the warmth of her face, making his way from his cheek to her crown, then to her nose, then her other cheek, until he’s tracing her lips.

She pecks his hand then, twice, and he smiles, taking her own, which had wandered to the back of his neck, in hand and leaning down to kiss her gently.

She stiffens in surprise, but only for a second, and then she’s soft, pliable beneath him, mouth easily giving way to his tongue as he slips it past her teeth, tickles the roof of her mouth, slides it alongside hers. She moans into his mouth, falls onto her back, pulling him over her.

They're _really_ getting good at this. 

He doesn’t think she’s paying attention, but the movement puts his bare chest in contact with her soft breasts, and he inhales sharply through his nose, nips her bottom lip with his. She grabs his hair to pull him closer and returns the favor. Their teeth clash for a moment, but they’re so busy trying to devour each other it’s of little consequence, and the hand that’s not occupied with keeping him upright drifts to her waist, squeezing gently as she arches against him.

He’s not quite sure how long they stay like that, kissing on her bed, chests pressed together. It doesn’t matter, he supposes; it could last forever if she wished it, and he’d be a slave to her command.

When they finally part his lips feel wet, and hers are shining, her hair mussed, cheeks pink. It makes him want to do it again.

She pants, staring up at him. “I like that.”

He laughs, lets his hand on her waist flatten to her stomach and presses his head into her shoulder. “We haven’t even started yet!”

She huffs. “Well it’s not _my_ fault. I took your clothes off _ages_ ago.”

He slides his hand up to cover the breast that’s been tempting him, and she squeals. “Tyrion!”

He pulls up from her neck to look at her. “Do you want me to stop?”

She reddens. “No?”

“ _Mm_.” He says, smugly, and tightens his grip to hear her squeal again.

Gods, but it is _soft_.

He leans down again, this time to kiss her neck, still massaging her breast. She sighs, arching into his touch, and he thinks he would be perfectly happy if it was the only sound he heard for the rest of his life until he breathed his last.

He nips a little at her collarbone, soothes it. Kisses across to the other side, to mouth gently at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. Sansa tightens the hand that she has wound in his curls and tries to pull him closer as she pushes herself up to meet him, but all she ends up doing is sliding up the bed until the sheet slips from her chest.

At the sight of her perfect tits, he can’t help himself, really, when he moves a little lower. Presses kisses down her breasts, until he's closer and closer to the peak, and she's pushing into him. Takes a bud into his lips and mouthes at it. 

She makes a delightful noise, then, and he thinks her hips even buck (it’s a little hard to tell with _this_ preoccupation), straining the sheet a little. He moves his hand back down to her stomach, pressing gently to keep her from moving as he enjoys her (quite lovely) breasts, in a moment alternating to the other, making good use of his tongue. 

(Because if anything, he _knows_ he can use his tongue.)

When he finally releases her, leaning back, taking a second to breathe, Sansa grabs his hand to keep it from moving away from her stomach.

“That was—that was incredible,” she says, eyes fixed on him. “I didn’t know women could have such—” She blushes, looking away. “— _pleasure_.”

Such _pleasure?_

The way she worded it, not as if she didn't know she could have pleasure with a man, but as if she didn't know she could have pleasure _at all_.

He sits up, then, fully sits up, staring at her. Surely, _surely_ that couldn’t mean—

“Sansa,” He begins carefully.

She meets his eyes again. “Hm?”

“Have you ever…” He pauses, trying to think of a delicate way to phrase it. He finds none, but he has to know. Has to ask. “When you’re alone, have you ever touched yourself?”

She looks so confused, he’s certain he knows the answer. “What do you mean?”

He moves the hand on her stomach so that his rests on _her_ hand instead. Gently, he guides it down, until it rests atop her smallclothes. “ _Here_ , Sansa. Have you ever touched yourself here?”

She blushes at the contact but shakes her head.

And for the second time that night, he’s speechless.

“Was I supposed to, before you came?” She asks quietly, looking a little worried. “I’m sorry, my septa never said—”

He finds the words to interrupt her, at least, shaking his head. “No, no, Sansa. You've done nothing wrong. It’s just that—a lot of girls do. It’s how—” He pauses again, but he has to _tell her_. “It’s how a woman _finishes_.”

She only looks more confused. “I didn’t think we could… _do_ that.”

“You can.” He assures her.

She bites her lip again, and he can see in her eyes the exact moment her resolve kicks in. She slides her hand out from his, and when he tries to pull back, she stops him. Presses down, pushes him towards her smallclothes.

“Show me.” She says, _demands_ , and his heart stops.

\--

She stares at him, jutting her chin out a little, feigning confidence.

It’s true, she knows little of the marriage bed, but she does know she holds power here. Much of it, if Tyrion’s shocked state has anything to do with it.

Cersei had told her, once, of how powerful a tool she had between her legs. Sansa hadn’t understood it then, and she certainly didn’t understand it with Ramsay; if anything, that was what had broken her.

But at Tyrion’s shuddering breath, his fluttering eyes, she’s starting to comprehend it.

And _oh_ , she can’t complain, really. When he kissed her mouth, her _breasts_ —there’s a pleasant heat building in her, deep in her stomach, and every time he touches her it grows.

It takes him a moment to move, shifting even closer to her, so that she feels the fabric of his breeches against her thigh, feels the skin of his chest brushing her side. Hesitantly, he brings the hand she’d pushed down to her hip. Fingers the fabric there, runs a thumb over the line of skin above it.

“Could I take these off?” He says, tentatively, and she nods.

He sits up over her, brings his remaining hand to her other hip. She lifts her pelvis, and he tugs the fabric down until it reaches her knees, when she grows impatient, kicking them off herself.

He’s trying his best not to ogle, she can tell, sliding back up her body until he can kiss her again. She appreciates that, at least now—she’s nervous enough with her breasts bared before him. But his hands find his way back to her hips and he strokes her, runs a hand down to her thigh, back up to her waist. She leans into the movement the best she can, trying to encourage him, enjoying the rough patches on his hands catching the softness of her fine hairs.

Still, she jumps a little when his touch ghosts around to the inside of her leg, sliding slightly upward, and she reflexively presses her thighs together, searching for pressure.

He must notice, because he pulls back to meet her eyes. “Alright?”

She nods, and he sighs quietly. Leans down once more to languidly kiss her, licking into her mouth sweetly, hotly, as his hand strokes circles on the inside of her thigh, slowly making its way up.

She’d never noticed how sensitive the skin of her thighs were until now, she thinks, when his soft touches are making her squirm in the sheets, making whatever fire he’s stoking inside her climb ever higher.

(Perhaps _that’s_ what he was talking about.)

In a moment, he must have decided he’s waited long enough, wrapping a hand around one thigh, pulling it to him, spreading her legs slightly. It surprises her, a little, and she tenses before she allows it, relaxing into his hand. She thinks then, _then_ , he’s going to touch her there, is going to finally show her whatever he had been talking about.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he slides a hand over her skin, squeezing her leg gently, smoothing over her arse, her hip, her breast, before working back down. He repeats the process several times, and she’s getting a little impatient (and warm. Really, really warm—she’s going to be concerned about sweat in a moment if he keeps going) when he stops on her breast, gently palms it.

Somehow he’s still kissing her—quite thoroughly—and also managing his ministrations. (She doesn’t know how. She’d given up trying to respond when he started stroking her, and at this point he’s just _devouring_ her mouth, taking what he likes, and she really, _really_ wants him to touch her.) 

She pulls away a bit to tell him such, but he brings his thumb and forefinger together and pinches the peak of her breast— _pinches_ her—and she moans instead, the feeling somehow having shot _down_ , to the pit of her stomach, where that odd wave is starting to build, making her tremble.

He looks down at her curiously. “That good, really?”

“Come here,” She says instead of answering, tugging him until he climbs over her, making room for him between her legs. He settles comfortably on top of her, chest flush with hers, his legs brushing the inside of her thighs when he shifts.

 He presses his mouth to hers again, then, _hard_ , even though she _knows_ he hasn’t caught his breath, that he was still panting. His desperation seems to be growing, though: soon he gives up trying to keep his hips away from hers and presses _against_ her, uses the hand on her hip to pull her even tighter, nips at her lip a few times before suckling down her jaw again. The feel of his breeches against her, _there_ , where she’s still bare, is odd, intimate, but it also feels so good, so _right_ , and she bucks against him a little, noises escaping her throat, unbidden.

The hand on her hip shifts, then, until it hovers just above her (apparently very-sensitive) mound. He hesitates for a second, so she makes the decision for him, grabbing his hand and pushing down abruptly until she can feel it rest on her.

 _That_ makes him pause.

He pulls away from her neck (she’s going to have so many marks in the morning, she laments) to look at her, and she’s a little surprised at his appearance. 

His eyes are hooded, his hair in disarray, his lips swollen. He looks almost… he looks _debauched_.

He doesn’t break from her gaze as he licks his lips. As he slides his hand through her curls experimentally. When she doesn’t protest, he continues, stroking first, then sliding his fingers farther down until one can part her folds, slide gently to the place she knows he’ll eventually enter her.

The feeling is very odd; she’s never wanted someone to touch her there, and no one ever really has, not to please her. But now she’s so _sensitive_ , so much so that she has to bite her lip to keep herself from making another one of those embarrassing noises.

He doesn’t linger there, though, only dipping in slightly (where she can tell she’s wet— _wet_!— and blushes, embarrassed) before gently stroking up, _up_ , until his slick finger catches a spot on her that sends such an unexpected rush of warmth through her that she _yelps_.

She gasps an apology that he ignores. He shakes his head and moves his hand to that spot again, and then again, and then he’s not just sliding past, he’s _rubbing_ it, and the heat that she had felt slowly building before intensifies, climbing higher and higher until she’s dizzy, hot, _shaking_ at the sensation, at the sheer _force_ of the feeling that’s inside her, and suddenly she _gets_ it, gets why women go to bed with a man out of wedlock, why they have small herds of children with their husbands, because this is the best feeling she’s ever had, and if he pressed a _little_ harder, she could _just_ —

And then—then he stops.

Sansa doesn’t curse, has never been one to curse, not really, but when he withdraws his hand she does, and she does, and she can’t even feel bad about it. “ _Fuck_!” She hisses, groaning in frustration.

Tyrion laughs a little at her, and she glares at him. “Hold on,” He tells her, sitting up and scooting back, bringing the sheet with him. Then he grabs her thighs, spreads them even further, and she’s about to ask why he _stopped_ , and could he _please_ keep doing that thing with his fingers? when he settles down flat on his stomach down _there_ , kissing the inside of her leg.

“What are you _doing_?” She asks, suddenly made very aware of how naked she is, of the perfect view he has between her legs.

“Tasting you,” He says, and he says it so matter-of-factly, like one would say “it’s raining,” or “I’m going to bed,” that she just stares at him.

“But—but you can’t.”

“Pardon me?” He says, pressing another kiss farther up her leg, and she fights the impulse to trap his head between her thighs. “I certainly can.”

Her cheeks heat. “Tyrion, why would you want to—”

“Because I’d like to taste you, and you’ll like it.” He says, and this time he bites the soft skin on the inside of her thigh, and she can feel her resolve melting, she just wants him to do _something_.

“But it’s _indecent_ ,” She tries.

“It is not,” He says, but his words are muffled by her leg. He lifts his head and props it up on his arms to look at her. “This is one of the few skills I have in this world, Sansa. Believe me, you’ll be happy you made use of it.”

Margaery had said, all those years ago, that she could come to appreciate Tyrion’s experience with women. She hadn’t known at the time what that had meant—but she’s starting to, and she has a feeling this has something to do with it. So she gives a curt nod, and he grins.

But instead of going back to soft kisses on her thighs, he dives directly down and _licks_. 

She cries out at the sensation, hips bucking, hand going to the back of his head, fighting the desire to clamp her legs together on his head.

And _damn him_ if she can’t feel the corners of his mouth turn up against her smugly right before he does it again, laves a stripe up, _up_ , and then flattens his tongue against the same spot he’d touched earlier. Then his fingers find her opening, one sliding in smoothly to press firmly against her, like he’s trying to press them to his mouth from _inside_ her, and then she does close her legs, can’t even find the control _not_ to, because the feeling is _incredible_ , and the heat that had started earlier is getting even worse ( _better?_ ), overtaking her, and it only burns faster through her as he keeps licking her. She thinks that’s it, she’s going to die, right here, with her husband between her legs, and she doesn’t even bother trying to stop the noises she’s making now, pushing his head harder against her.

And _then_ —then he takes a hand and places it on her lower belly to hold her still, right above her mound and pushes _down_ , choosing that moment to _suck_ at the _perfect_ spot that’s giving her immeasurable pleasure (pain?), to twist his fingers harder inside her, and her eyes shoot open in surprise. The fire in her roars to a crescendo, so high that she can’t see, only _feel_ , and she hears someone screaming (it’s her, definitely her) as he worries her between his lips obscenely, the fire absolutely overtaking her, _consuming_ her from the inside out, and she reaches the edge of something wonderful and her body, her _soul_ , _just_. _shatters_.

When she comes back to herself, still panting, gasping for air, Tyrion is kissing her hips, her stomach, gently rubbing her down with his fingers, watching her.

She swallows. “That was—that was—”

“Indecent?” He teases, biting the skin of her stomach gently.

“Well, I don’t there wasn’t anything about that that could be considered _decent_ ,” She retorts, gently pulling on his arm until he climbs back up her body.

He sighs, kissing the crown of her head. “I suppose we won’t try it again, then.” He laments, feigning resignation.

She _knows_ he’s joking, but still her cheeks burn and she feels the need to clarify. “Well, I didn’t say _that_ ,” She mumbles.

He grins down at her, but doesn’t bother continuing to bait her, taking the opportunity to kiss her instead.

She doesn’t mind, at all, when his tongue seeks hers again, when he tries to lick into her mouth, but there is something slightly _off_. It takes her a moment to comprehend that it’s the _taste_ , that he tastes _different_ , and it’s because he tastes like _her_ , and the thought is lewd, but it makes her groan into his mouth anyway, pulling him tighter against her, squeezing her legs against his hips.

His own jerk against her involuntarily, and she realizes abruptly that she can feel him, even through his breeches, can feel the hardness of his length firmly pressing against her.

It’s different, somehow, than the other times she’s felt him against her leg, her arse. He’s moving now, slightly, and it feels good, pressed against her bare flesh, and she can’t help but think how much _better_ it could be if he would take off his breeches.

She pushes him, gently, until he releases her mouth. He’s confused, brows drawn, and she runs her fingers down, through the soft hair on his chest until she reaches the ties on his last piece of clothing. He chokes, bucking against her hand, and her heart pounds.

“Could you take them off?” She murmurs, tugging at a tie.

He doesn’t even bother answering, pulling off of her to sit back on his heels and untying them so quickly she’s surprised he doesn’t hurt himself. Then he unceremoniously pushes them down to his knees and then _off_.

He doesn’t notice her stare for a moment, taking the time to settle back between her legs, resting on his knees. When he does, though, he stills, giving her time to look at him.

And look she does.

He’s… _big_. Bigger than she’d expected, anyway—though she isn’t entirely sure _what_ she’d been expecting. She’s only ever seen one other man’s cock—and then it was under duress, and she’d only ever caught brief glimpses.

Still, she remembers well enough to be able to compare.

Where Ramsay had been blunt, thick, Tyrion is longer, a little thinner. His manhood is darker, too, and it looks almost painful, engorged the way it is, jutting out from his hips. It’s so flushed it’s red, and it shines a little at the tip.

She gets the sudden urge to touch it, but she manages to refrain, fisting the sheets instead.

Tyrion notices—how does he _always_ notice—and shifts a little on his haunches. “Do you want to…” He trails off, head tilted a little to the side.

Her cheeks heat, but she doesn’t reply, so he grabs a hand that’s resting by her side. Gently pulls it to him, wraps it on his manhood, keeping his own hand atop hers.

He’s surprisingly soft, she thinks, carefully rubbing a thumb over him. Hard, yes, but that’s inside—the outside skin is smooth, warm. Unthinkingly, she squeezes, and his hips buck. “ _Gods_ —” He swears, eyes squeezed shut.

Curious, she does it again, and again _,_ and he tightens his hand on hers. “Fuck,  _fuck_ ,” He swears again, pressing into her. “ _Sansa_ —”

She tries sliding her hand down him, then, tightly, once, then again, but he jerks away from her.

“Stop, stop,” He says, leaning back, eyes wild. “You can’t do that.”

“Sorry,” She says, worried. “Was that wrong?”

He just looks at her for a moment, bewildered, breathing heavy, before he shakes his head and settles on top of her again, closer. “No, no, it was perfect.” He breathes against her lips, before pecking them. “I just won’t last if you keep doing that.”

“ _Oh_.” She says, realization dawning.

He smiles at her blush, kissing her again, firmly, and soon they’re at it again, and he’s taking her mouth, _consuming_  it like his life depends on it. At some point he forgets to keep his hips separated from hers and she can _feel_ him, feels his manhood prod at her, and she whines.

He pulls from her lips to look at her curiously, then experimentally shifts, pressing his hips flush with hers until he’s slipped  _between_ her folds and by the _Seven_ , she’s going to _die_ if he doesn’t do _something_.

He must be thinking much the same thing, because he shifts again, presses against her firmly once, twice, and he’s pressing against that spot _again_ , and she didn’t think it was possible, but the heat she’d felt earlier is once again intensifying, burning between her legs. She wraps her legs around his hips, to keep him from pulling away, and he groans, bucking into her.

“Do you think I could—” He starts, but stops himself with a groan when she presses her own hips up, chasing friction.

“Have me?” She finishes his thought, grinding against him. “ _Please_.”

He sighs in relief and reaches down, spreading her folds gently with her fingers before she feels his manhood probe at her, catch. He looks up at her, one more time, as if for confirmation, and she nods jerkily.

He exhales, long and slow, and then he’s pushing _in_.

She nearly cries out—she has no maidenhead, it’s true, but it’s also been years since that particular part of her anatomy has felt any such intrusion. It burns a little, as he works his length in, but she can feel the wetness that had been gathering there (she’s starting to suspect that perhaps it’s _supposed_ to be there) aid his entry, and it doesn’t take long until he’s fully seated inside her.

He’s breathing shakily through his nose, eyes screwed shut, still, and if she didn’t know any better she’d say he was in pain.

But she _does_ know better; so, she tests the fit, squeezing her muscles around him.

“ _Oh my—_ ” He gasps, pressing his face between her tits, gripping her hips tighter. “Wait, _wait_ , _please,_ ” He says—no, _begs_ —and she takes mercy on him, stilling.

It takes him a long moment, warm breath brushing her chest, but eventually he pushes himself up to rest on his forearms and starts to _move_.

It’s good, really good; every push sends his lower abdomen against her _there_ , to the place where the white-hot burn has started to kindle again, but then he stops, directs her to pull her legs up farther, over his shoulders, and suddenly it’s _everything_. He drives against her, grunting low and deep, and somehow he’s pushing something far up inside her, something so, so _good_ , and she moans as her eyesight starts to go dizzy.

He’s trying, she can tell, really trying, straining to move slowly, evenly, but he soon accepts that it’s a lost cause and just _takes_ her, hips erratic, fast, hard.

She’s close to that precipice, _so_ close, but she thinks he’s going to find his first, with the feral noises he’s making, with how fast he’s going, but then he slows for a moment, shifting his weight onto one arm so he can slide the other down, between them, and her breath hitches when he _rubs_ , and then she’s crashing again, shaking as he pushes once, twice, before groaning. He stills, then, calls her name in a strangled breath, and spills deep inside her.

He falls then, pillows his head on her chest as he pants, and she threads her fingers through his hair, staring at the ceiling.

That was _not_ what she had expected.

She had thought he'd be gentle, it's true- he's gentle in nature, especially to her, always has been. But she'd thought- she'd thought he'd probably just kiss her, try to make her comfortable, and then he'd take what he had to. It'd be quick, a little painful. 

But he hadn't, and it wasn't. It was… _wonderful_. Passionate, loving. He hadn’t just had her, he’d made love to her, taken _care_ of her, shown her something special, something she could never have imagined, and her heart is full as she looks down at him. Her husband, in truth now as well as in name.

“Tyrion?” She says softly.

He grunts against her skin, but moves enough to prop his chin up on her stomach, to look up at her.

She bites her lip, and she thinks her chest might actually burst at the swell of affection she feels at the sight.  “I think I love you,” She tells him.

His mouth spreads into a smile, and he presses a kiss to her stomach. “That’s quite convenient,” He replies. “Because I’m definitely in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all?????


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion stretches in the morning light, groping around blindly, searching for bare flesh.
> 
> When he find it, he grunts, rolling closer, until he can press against it, can manage to bury his nose in the nape of a soft neck.
> 
> Sansa jumps in his arms. “Tyrion!” She hisses, and he opens his eyes. She’s rolled over to glare at him, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’re freezing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to get really sappy here: bear with me. 
> 
> This is the first real fanfic I've ever written. Like, yeah, I dabbled in middle school, a little in high school, but it never really had an actual plot or meaning, and the writing was always shitty and never edited. So.. yeah. This was quite the first for me. And the overwhelming and incredible support I got was absolutely amazing. Like, so amazing. I actually can't believe that (as of right now) 1250 people read this shit and liked it enough to actually respond and leave a kudos. 
> 
> Just... wow. And to all of you commenters, especially those who have come back time after time to review _every_ chapter... I love you so damn much, omg. You're the absolute fucking best, and I appreciate you so much. 
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming on this ride with me, for reading all my batshit wild author's notes, for putting up with an absurd amount of commas and typos and lack of real plot. God bless y'all. Thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoy the end to this crazy journey. <3

Tyrion stretches in the morning light, groping around blindly, searching for bare flesh.

When he find it, he grunts, rolling closer, until he can press against it, can manage to bury his nose in the nape of a soft neck.

Sansa jumps in his arms. “ _Tyrion_!” She hisses, and he opens his eyes. She’s rolled over to glare at him, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’re _freezing_.”

He hums in agreement, pulling her by the waist until he’s flush against her again. “And you’re not. You see my logic here.”

She sighs, sitting up. “I’m only so hot because you got me _pregnant_ , you _ass_.” 

His hand slips to rest on her swollen belly, covered by a thin shift. “As I seem to recall, it was a joint effort.”

She tugs their furs up from where they’ve gathered at their feet and promptly dumps them on top of him with some difficulty. She’s _very_ pregnant: in truth, the maester says the baby will come any day. “Joint effort,” She mutters, lying back down and pressing back against him until his front meets her back. He wraps an arm around her waist. “You say that every time, but I distinctly remember informing you the first time I’d never do it again.”

“I remember that, too,” He says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “But I remember you saying ‘ _Oh, Tyrion, wouldn’t a child be just wonderful_ ,’ and then ‘ _Ned needs someone to play with, Tyrion, and we don’t have a girl yet_.’”

 “I _did_ say that the first two times,” She admits, sighing in defeat, “but this time was _all_ you.”

 “It wasn’t like I _meant_ to. Blame the maester. _He’s_ the one who didn’t make the tea strong enough.” He nips at her ear, then soothes it with his tongue. “Besides, I don’t remember _you_ complaining.”

Sansa huffs, but she’s melting under his touch. She gets so wonderfully _responsive_ when she’s pregnant. “How could I have _possibly_ known?”

He licks a stripe up her neck, skin soft under his tongue, and reaches for her breast. “Woman’s intuition?”

“Oh, hush,” She says, but she’s rolling over and leaning into him, is tugging him down, her breath ghosting his lips, and he’s _just_ about to meet her mouth with his—

And then their door swings open, hitting the wall loudly.

“Father! Mama!” A young voice yells, and Tyrion abruptly yanks his hand away from the mother of his children, who looks _quite_ put out. He soothes a hand over her arm, shoots her a dark gaze that promises _later_ , and turns his attention to their children.

Young Ned bounces over to their bed, near-white hair shining in the sun, blue eyes wide. “I want to go riding with you today, Father, you _promised_.”

“But you said _I_ could go with you next time,” Johanna protests, dark curls awry from what was clearly a race to their chambers.

Tyrion sighs, and falls back into the bed, arm covering his eyes. “Can’t you _both_ come with me?”

“ _No_!” They both protest in unison.

Sansa smiles when he groans, and it’s _his_ turn to glare. “Looks like you have a choice to make, dear.”

He looks down at their children, who both look at him pleadingly. Then he looks to his wife. “I think I might take your mother instead. She does far less whinging.”

“ _Papa_!” Little Jo says.

Sansa sighs, pats the spot beside her on the bed, and both children hurry to clamber up, elbowing each other in a struggle to sit closer to their mother.

Sansa leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “You remember when we told you Uncle Jon and Aunt Dany were coming to visit with Aemon?”

Both nod.

“They’re to arrive today.”

Ned whoops in delight. “Aemon? _Today_?”

Sansa nods.

Ned turns to little Jo. “You can go with Papa today. But it’s _my_ turn next time.”

Jo grins. “It was _already_ my turn this time,” She says. Praise the gods, Ned doesn’t rise to the bait, and Jo scrambles off the bed, running to the door so she can get ready for her excursion with her father.

“When will they come, mother?” Ned asks, bouncing slightly on his knees.

She reaches out to fondly ruffle his hair—blonde curls, just like his. “Midday, gods be good.”

He bolts upright. “I have to tell Maester Wolken! He told me I could help get the pasture ready for Drogon!”

Tyrion laughs, and shoves the boy gently. “Go, then! He’ll need a lot of goats after flying so far.”

Ned grins and slides off their bed, racing out the room and slamming the door behind him. Sansa winces at the sound. “He _has_ to stop doing that.”

“He’s excited,” Tyrion murmurs, grabbing her hand and pressing a kiss to its back. “They haven’t seen each other in months.”

It’s true—and Ned and Aemon had always gotten along quite well. It was to be expected, really; they were close in age, and each had a wild streak that made them prone to all manner of trouble. (Sansa insists it’s genetic, and it _certainly_ hadn’t come from her.) They typically see each other more often—Drogon has made things rather simple in the travelling aspect, and can get Daenerys and Jon there in less than an hour, so the boys usually play at least once a week while the adults speak of the realm.

Things had fallen into place rather quickly after he and Sansa had gone to Casterly Rock. They stayed there for a short while after King’s Landing, just long enough for her to become comfortable with her new role, to adjust to being the Lady of Casterly Rock, partner to the Warden of the West. It didn’t take very long—she already had ample experience in politics—but she did have to learn the ways of her new people. Tyrion had been delighted with how quickly she took to it, how his people adored her.

(Though, who _wouldn’t_?)

She’d taken quickly to the West, too—she loved the climate, the lemon trees, the gardens, the library. ( _He_ loved the way the breezy dresses cling to her, the way her mouth looks when she bites into a peach, the way her blue eyes focus when she’s reading.)

They’d visited Bran and Jon at Winterfell soon enough. Jon was, of course, quite pleased to see his sister, and even more pleased to see her happy beside him, and had told Tyrion as such. Bran and Sansa had had quite the emotional reunion when they finally met again—Sansa had clung to his neck, weeping into Bran’s form, which, even with Sansa’s height, towered over her.

The four of them had talked for hours, then, about Bran’s past, about the transition of Winterfell, about their future. Jon had informed them, quietly, that Daenerys would come retrieve him from the North within the fortnight, to bring him to begin his tenure as her Hand, and that he planned to ask for _her_ hand upon their arrival in King’s Landing.

Sansa had, of course, thrown her arms around him, laughing in delight, and Tyrion had clapped his back.

They’d certainly waited long enough.

(And Tyrion knew how _that_ felt.)

They were married two months later.

Tyrion had been surprised to find Sansa pregnant shortly after she stopped taking moon tea, a year into their marriage. She had _really_ wanted a babe, and Tyrion couldn’t deny her anything, though he wasn’t _completely_ confident he could give her one.

He had, though, almost immediately.

Her pregnancy went splendidly. Maester Wolken had said, in fact, that it was the best pregnancy he’d ever overseen.

(Sansa had disagreed—her feet ached, constantly. Tyrion had not—she also wanted him, constantly.)

It wasn’t long at all before Ned came along, a screaming, fair-haired child with Sansa’s gorgeous eyes. Healthy. Perfect.

(Tyrion had thanked the gods, then, for the first time in his life, had stayed in the Sept for _hours_.)

It had only been a month after Ned had been born when they’d received a raven from King’s Landing—Daenerys was, somehow, _pregnant_.

Later, they received news that she had born Jon a son—dark hair, purple eyes. Prince Aemon of House Targaryen.

Jon had confessed to Tyrion, years later, that he and Daenerys had tried again, many times, for more children, but it had never happened. Aemon was a miracle, and his parents knew it.

Still, though, he was a good boy, even from the start. He was kind, with his father’s temperament and his mother’s passion. He and Ned had played together ever since they were small and grew as close as brothers over the years.

Ned had just had his second name-day when Sansa had hinted, idly, that she wouldn’t mind a girl. Tyrion hadn’t been entirely sure of the idea in the beginning: after all, they’d been lucky the first time, with a smooth pregnancy and birth, but there was no guarantee it would happen that way again.

But Sansa had been _quite_ convincing, and soon enough she delivered Johanna. She was a small thing at first—the maester said she was probably borne before term—but strong, with the Stark coloring and the same stubbornness.

Arya had been there for that birth, had returned at the news of their second child to meet her first two nephews.

And when Sansa had given Johanna over to her sister to hold, dark eyes opened to meet the young woman’s, and the fussing baby quieted.

“Just watch,” Sansa had whispered to him secretly. “This one will be a troublemaker.”

His wife hadn’t been _wrong_. Their daughter was a spitfire, wild and sometimes unruly. Her aunt had only encouraged it. Sansa had shook her head and berated Arya when she gifted her niece with her first dagger, but the words were too soft to be truly angry, and she fooled no one.

This child… _this_ child was something of a surprise.

Ned was nine and Johanna seven when Sansa fell pregnant for the third time. It was a shock, really: she’d been taking moon tea nearly every day, and they hadn’t been _planning_ for another child. Sansa had told him after Johanna that she was quite content with the family she had, and Tyrion had shared the sentiment.

Still, he couldn’t help but be elated at the news. She had been, too, had laughed when she told him.

“Another lion,” She’d teased him. “However will we keep up with _three_?”

Tyrion had snorted. “Jo has the blood of a wolf in her veins, dear wife, and you _know_ it.”

Their life since that fateful trip to King’s Landing has been nothing short of bliss, truth be told. Tyrion has never been happier, certainly.

It’s true: he and Sansa have disagreements. Often. Usually they’re about the care of the Rock or the West; she’s just as skilled as he in ruling, so she can put up quite the argument when conflicts arise. Still, though, they manage to resolve them quickly enough. Both have a weakness for the other and staying angry grows far too exhausting.

(And impossible. How could he possibly ever go to sleep without holding his _wife_ in his arms?)

Sansa shakes his arm gently, breaking him out of his reverie.

 “Hm?”

“You should catch up with Jo before she leaves without you.” She advises.

 “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”  He sighs, kissing her one last time before he sits up. “We’ll be back in time to meet Dany and your brother.”

“You’d better be,” She mumbles, burrowing into her pillow.

“Are you going _back_ to sleep?” He asks, amused, as he pulls on his breeches. 

“Let me remind you that I’m carrying _your_ child.” She shoots back, voice muffled by the fabric.

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Sleep well, then.”

\--

They’re riding in the woods, stalking a stag when they hear Drogon’s roar.

Jo grins, doesn’t say a word, and kicks her horse into a gallop towards the Rock. Tyrion curses and shakes his head fondly as he prompts his horse to follow her.

He barely catches her before she hops off by the pasture, where Drogon is snapping a goat into his mouth. “Jo, you have to _tell_ me before you ride off!”

“Sorry, Father!” She yells over her shoulder as she hops into the gates and races toward the dragon.

“You are _not_ ,” He says crossly under his breath, but he doesn’t chase her. _Couldn’t_ , probably even if he wanted to. He’s getting old.

He’s just starting towards the keep when he spots a rider coming toward him, full speed. It’s a servant, he thinks.

“M’lord, m’lord!” The boy shouts as he pulls to a stop and hops off his horse. “It’s the Lady Lannister,” He says after a moment, panting. “It’s time.”

\--

Their third child is a boy, and he’s _huge_. Tyrion thinks he might be a giant.

Sansa nurses him, cooing to him as Tyrion watches.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” She says with a smile.

He climbs onto the bed beside her to get a better look at his son. “I think he’d prefer _handsome_.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles as she gently hands him over. Tyrion takes him automatically, having grown used to holding babes as of late.

Her next words shock him.

“I think we should name him Bronn.”

\--

The thing about Bronn Lannister is that he doesn’t _look_ like a Lannister.

He doesn’t look like a Stark, either, though.

For some reason, Sansa isn’t surprised when his dark blue eyes shift to purple as he gets a little older.

“I thought he would,” She’d replied when he’d mentioned that he thinks his boy’s eyes have the Targaryen coloring, which baffles him. After all, Sansa isn’t lying with another man—and certainly not a _Targaryen_. There aren’t even any more in _existence_.  When he presses further, she only shrugs and tells him to ask Bran the next time he visits.

He does, warily.

Bran softly tells his own wife, a pretty Martell girl, to leave them.

He then explains that Tyrion is, in fact, a Targaryen. His father was the Mad King, his mother Johanna Lannister.

There’s more than one reason Tywin had never liked him.

It makes sense, when Bran explains it. Ned has the blonde-white hair, Bronn the flashing purple eyes.

“Bronn will have the temper, too,” He warns. “But not the madness. It’ll take work, but you’ll keep him in line.”

Tyrion cries in Sansa’s arms that night.

\--

When Bronn is three years old, Bran’s wife gives birth to their second child, and their first boy: Jaime Stark, heir to Winterfell, the future Warden of the North.

(Tyrion asks Bran, one day, why he’d named his son after the man who’d cost him his legs. Bran stopped, thoughtfully. “Jaime was a good man,” He had answered, and his eyes glazed a bit like they did when he _remembered_. “In another life, Brienne…” He shook his head quickly, and his eyes returned to normal. “He was honorable, and a hero, in the end. Isn’t that reason enough?”)

By the time Johanna marries Robyn Arryn’s boy (a strong lad, good and decent, the calm water to Jo’s fire), there’s a Stark in every one of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Did you do this on _purpose_?” He teases his wife one night as they lay side by side under the furs. “Are you trying to take over the world, and you just haven’t let me in on it yet?”

She glances over at him, eyes twinkling. “And what would you do if I were?”

He smiles. “Queen Sansa has the complete fealty of House Lannister, of course.”

“I do, don’t I?” She says, looking quite pleased with herself, and then she kisses him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Please, let me know what you think in the comments below! 
> 
> Also... take note, this is now part of a series where I've already posted an excerpt- and you can likely expect more in the future. :)


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